


The Signs of the Four

by Emma_Lynch



Series: The Tell-Tale Heart Sherlolly Series [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 1896, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Attempted Seduction, Blackmail, Different Types of Love, F/M, Falling In Love, Friendship/Love, Giant Rat of Sumatra, Injured Sherlock, Loss, Love, Poor Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes and Feelings, Sherlolly Big Bang Challenge 2015, Strong Molly, Untold Cases of Sherlock Holmes, angst - Victorian style, dastardly deeds and behaviour, repressed passions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-16
Updated: 2015-12-17
Packaged: 2018-05-07 04:03:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 31,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5442647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emma_Lynch/pseuds/Emma_Lynch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"There are four kinds of love." - Dr John H Watson</p><p>It is 1896 and Sherlock Holmes is a famed and admired consulting detective, highly thought of in society and feared by the criminals, low-lifes and ne`er-do-wells who cross his path. Margaret Hooper is a penniless mortuary maid, patronised by the generous Countess Morcar and currently embarking upon a career in medicine in a man's world. They are drawn, irresistibly to each other, but must learn several important lessons along the way as, along with Dr John Watson, they become embroiled in a dark and dastardly chain of events which threaten everything they hold most dear. </p><p>Mr Holmes has determined upon a life of solitude and cerebral machinations and is reluctant to allow `the grit upon the lens' of human emotion to colour his judgements.  Miss Hooper is devoted to her studies, her gentility and a predictable future.</p><p>May the heart want what it wants, my friends...</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>  <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/5459270">The Signs of the Four, by kiwigirl188</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kiwigirl188](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiwigirl188/gifts).



> Although the story is set in Victorian England, the characters are very much BBC Sherlock in both appearance and character, merely veneered with an extra layer of gentility and historical referencing. Sherlock Holmes and John Watson live together in Baker Street, as before Season 3 in BBC Sherlock.
> 
> Although the first meeting of Mr Holmes and Miss Hooper may be read about in a previous short story, `The Tell-Tale Heart - A Victorian Sherlolly Story`, it is not necessary to read that story first. This is very much a stand alone story.
> 
> I would very much like to thank my amazing Beta, Sarah Wicks for taking so much time and trouble with this story. She had to wield her red pen in sorting out my comma obsession, but she was so supportive and fantastic.
> 
> I was so very excited to collaborate with the fantastic kiwigirl188 for the wonderful artwork that illustrates this story. She took my (amorphous!) ideas and made them into something beautiful, fabulous and perfect - exactly what I wanted without even knowing it! Thank you.

**“To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything and your heart will be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact you must give it to no one, not even an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements. Lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket, safe, dark, motionless, airless, it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable. To love is to be vulnerable.”**

- _C.S. Lewis - The Four Loves_

* * *

 

 

** Prologue  **

** by John H Watson, M.D. **

 

There are four kinds of love.

Classics scholars will attest that the ancient Greeks decreed such an effulgent, dynamic and world-turning emotion could not be contained in mere word of four letters – ergo, there must be four definitions to encompass such a mighty sentiment, and they are listed thus:

 **_Storge_ ** _: a love derived from familial bonds; given naturally and without question. This kind must come from the heart._

 **_Eros_ ** _: a love also termed as romance; shown through sexual and irrational desire. This kind must come from the body._

 **_Philia_ ** _: a love given in friendship, and often involving unquestioning sacrifice and loyalty. This kind must come from the mind._

 **_Agape_ ** _: a gift of love; a universal, loving kindness and empathy for others which is both selfless and unconditional. This kind of love must come from the soul, and lives forever._

Indeed, there _are_ four kinds of love, and their existence on this earthly plane of ours is visible each and every day, most particularly to those who have the eyes and heart to see them. My account, laid out below, gives narration to one of the more singular adventures belonging to my lifelong friend and companion, Sherlock Holmes. Amongst the criminal attributes, cold-hearted plottings, bizarre talismans and murderous intentions, there came  from this case a result that rattled us (we well-established, sedate Victorian gentlemen) from our moorings, and cast us into a sea, a maelstrom, from  whose bourn no traveller returns unscathed.

 **~x~**  

The cold, early months of 1896 bore witness to a most prolific and unceasing workload for this good doctor, as well as the man I had fair reason to term my best friend.

Holmes indeed had little cause to vitiate the cosy walls of our Baker Street lodgings with his indoor pistol practise, since his professional opinions were being sought both far and wide. Mr Hall Pycroft and his doppelgänger brother, the outrageous kidnapping of Mr Andreas Melas, the marital difficulties of Mr Grant Munroe and the singular experience of Mr John Scott Eccles all came by way of our humble door stoop and the seventeen stairs, all of which led to the most specific and efficient musings of Mr Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective.

I have frequently been accused of elevating his _simple art_ of deduction into a ` _prodigy_ `, but it was a truth most particular in those cold, wintery months that held our town  ransom before the ultimate reward of spring broke its chilly grasp. Seldom would I come down to coffee and a very welcome fire without acknowledging an anxious and often agitated stranger seated before my friend, surrendering to his specific and very particular line of questioning. His long, nervous hands tapping some unknown and silent composition atop the arm of his chair and the occasional slow rotation of an ankle were the only evidence to my practised eye that he was listening  carefully before a word of his own would be uttered.

“The reasoner, Watson, should have all the facts that  can come to his knowledge, and people rarely appreciate what a very rare accomplishment this can be.”

Alas, my dear reader, in regard to this particular case of ours, it happened that neither he nor I were in true possession of all the facts, and it came to pass that Sherlock Holmes himself was deceived by one of the most obvious facts of all.

But more of such things later.

 

**~x~**

I had recently ventured to assign more time to building my medical practise, since I had determined it would soon be time for me to find a wife, and so a living must be sought and capitalised upon. Thus, I had taken some rooms at the recently opened Marylebone Dispensary for Women's Medicine funded by the generous Countess Morcar and managed by Dr Elizabeth Garrett Anderson, a skilled and trusted pioneer in such medical meliorism. Although my own patients were a small (yet growing) list, I was able to learn much regarding recent advancements, and vowed to utilise such knowledge as my experience deepened. Recent years have seen astonishing developments in vaccines for cholera, anthrax, rabies, and both tetanus and diphtheria.

“And vaccination for typhoid fever is rumoured just around the corner, Dr Watson! These are exciting times indeed.”

Miss Margaret Anne Hooper. Russet-haired and smooth of cheek, she exuded a pinker hue and healthier complexion for certain since she had been taken into the wardship of the Countess and begun the long road to becoming a physician herself.

“Some even whisper ( _lowering her own voice_ ) of a _plague_ vaccination by the turn of the century- imagine how many more children will survive their infancy!”

Miss Hooper sits across from me, a large expanse of polished mahogany between us. She knows my patients are (as yet) few and far between, and we both enjoy our snatched moments for discourse, discussion ( _and often Darjeeling_ ) at regular intervals during the day.

“Miraculous, for certain,” I comment, smiling at the unbridled compassion radiating from her words and demeanour, a compassion already recognised by others, including the Countess herself, Dr Garrett Anderson, and Mr Sherlock Holmes. For it was he, dear reader, who had proposed that the Great Scotland Yard mortuary was no place for this girl, a girl who noticed, who observed and who saw what others did not. If she, as a humble mortuary maid, could take so much from the silent witnesses therein, she should perhaps make her way amongst the living. Such good sense and empathy would prove tremendous panacea for all.

My musings are arrested slightly as the lady herself rises and makes her excuses.

“You are in lectures this afternoon?” I bow as she makes towards the doorway, my own two o'clock patient still having thirty minutes in which to arrive.

“It is tremendously exciting, Doctor. A scholar of Monsieur Pasteur shall be speaking comprehensively upon germ theory and molecular dissymmetry. It is most fascinating that disease originates from something so small and seemingly insignificant.”

“Ah, Holmes will always chastise a person for missing the small and seemingly insignificant- it is the detail with him, always the minutiae others miss.”

Nodding her auburn head, my visitor affects an equivocal glance from her brown eyes which leaves me (yet again) _wondering_.

Medically, we continue to engender such miraculous improvements with far-reaching effects upon public health. But, in the race to arrest our physical frailty, are we perhaps neglecting our emotional health and spiritual well-being? In matters of the heart, does a feather-light grasp of a single aspect lead us to neglect another? The heart is a _maze_ of emotional grapplings and confusions, a place where we must look for signs, and those _signs_ must be followed in order to cure what ails us.

During all of our (almost daily) discussions, Miss Hooper and I have alluded to all topics medical and all social niceties. During my morning and evening discourses with my room-mate, Sherlock Holmes and I have alluded to all topics criminal, all experiments chemical, and nearly  everything in-between. But despite my clear and irrefutable knowledge of some _understanding_ that exists (oh, the subtle nuance of the well-bred London gentlefolk) betwixt them both, neither has alluded to the other in casual discourse or passing fancy. A charged silence usually descends if the other is mentioned, and nothing further can be gleaned from the exchange.

_As of yet._

You see, there are four different kinds of love, and were four lessons that Mr Holmes needed to learn.

 

**~x~**


	2. Sign One: Storge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The love of family is like no other.

**“Family love is messy, clinging, and of an annoying and repetitive pattern, like bad wallpaper.”**

**[Friedrich Nietzsche](http://www.famousquotesandauthors.com/authors/friedrich_nietzsche_quotes.html) **

 

* * *

 

** 13th March 1896 **

** St. Bart`s Teaching Hospital, a ** **quarter of midnight **

I lean in closer to the bone fragment, hardly daring to draw breath, lest I should displace a shard, a splinter, a microscopic element.

Closer …

Molecules. Dust? Pieces of humanity are still human, regardless of their size and irrelevant of their age. The fragments I examine with my lens are (most probably) of Neolithic origin and I am both privileged and fascinated to be allowed this window into the wellspring of our ancestry. The remains have been discovered by Sir James Prendergast (a local business man, philanthropist, and erstwhile archaeologist) and are an incredibly interesting part of London's historical mosaic.  Sixteen hundred years ours was a walled city, and the bones recently discovered in the shadow of Tower Hill and Blackfriars mark a most essential milestone since Aldgate had long  been deigned `too inconsequential` as a burial site. Rewards have long since been proffered by historical journals of great standing to prove the existence of our Stone Age antecedents within these city walls.

Archaeologists, palaeontologists; all searching for what is gone (as I used to do) instead of searching for what may come to pass. I understand little of their techniques, but still, at this late hour, alone in the mortuary at Bart`s, I revel in my special privilege in examining such ancient remains, since I understand most medical students (particularly those of my gender) may not be beneficent of such allowances.

The bulb filament fizzles and dims and I find myself losing a little patience with Mr Edison and his carbonized bamboo. Yet, it is then that I sense a creak, a shift in temperature and a fluctuation in the atmosphere that I may only attribute to a door being opened and a gas lamp being introduced, along with a slight breeze from a singularly cold night. One might purport the idea of perfect timing as being miraculous, if one weren't well acquainted with the irrelevance of such a notion in such a lazy universe. A deep and familiar voice cleaves softly through the night air as I hear my own name:

“Miss Molly Hooper.”

“Mr Sherlock Holmes.”

And one must see, if one is of an observational nature, how things are.

 

**~x~**

 

“Do you find the German design more favourable?”

He adjusts the _coarse_ , then the _fine_ focus and it is a moment before I realise Sherlock Holmes is asking my opinion of microscope design.

“I – ah, find it adequate.”

“Ah, Molly, your standards should aspire for more than `adequate`. A _Leitz_ , or a _Zeiss_ allow for excellent detail at a significantly higher magnification; a privilege seldom afforded by a _Powell & Leyland_ design. I endeavour, as always, to be patriotic, but the aperture diaphragm on this model is infinitely superior. A higher quality device may make all the difference – ”

He halts in his declaration, turns and looks at me and I find I am slightly mesmerized by the aperture of light passing through his bright, pale eyes as he smiles.

“This,” he declares, softly, “is a beautiful instrument, and more than adequate for the task.”

“Then I am more than fortunate,” I reply, smiling in return.

 

 **~x~**  

“It simply cannot be.”

The coffee I have brewed over the Bunsen is a little bitter, but we are both glad of its warmth when the chill and the hour of the night offer little comfort. Sherlock is as adamant as he ever is, and I find myself a little anxious.

“Sir James Prendergast has officially registered the find with _The London Journal of Antiquities_ ; all the paperwork is being filed. I was merely being allowed to indulge a little interest of my own, not attempting to discredit his claim.”

“And yet, the soil sample from the bones indicates they could not possibly have been found in Aldgate. The grain, the colour and the acidity proving the soil’s origin are further corroborated by the calcium deposits and unusual clay content. This sample is most probably from the Blackheath area, in the southeast, judging by its lower organic composition.”

“But, Sir James – ”

“Is erroneous in his claims.” He stands, picking up his top hat and gloves. “He may wish to speak with his archaeological team, since there are several layers of dishonesty regarding this discovery which may need further excavation.”

“You - ?”

“Have no further interest in the machinations of the idle rich. It is nearly dawn and I have an appointment across at the Limehouse Wharf. I need to see a fellow regarding a boat.”

“Sherlock, you`ve found it? The _SS Appledore_?”

He claps the hat atop his head, flattening the curl that even the most potent pomade could not fully tame, and picks up his stick.

“Perhaps; certainly it hails recently from Sumatra, and I must endeavour to follow the clues as they emerge. This is proving to be quite the three-pipe problem, Molly Hooper, and I lay full blame at your door. Had you not presented me with the contents of the belly of a rat, I should not be in such a perplexing position today.”

Glancing at his pocket-watch, Sherlock Holmes then gestures towards the door with both head and stick.

“Now, the hour is more than late, it is disgracefully _early_ , and the Countess would be appalled if I allowed you one more moment in this laboratory.”

Long, pale fingers dance across the silver top of his cane in an elegant cadence he is quite unaware of.

“Do you wish for my assistance? At the Wharf?”

“Certainly not.” He glances down, then at the door, then ( _brilliantly_ ) back at myself.  “I wish for you to take to your bed and sleep. Years of living with Watson have taught me that a tired doctor is of little use to anyone, alive or dead.”

And I allow the good sense of his request, yet acknowledge the ancient bones I leave behind with an air of apprehension and presentiment. No good would come of this.

 **~x~**  

** The Diogenes Club **

** Three days later **

I note Sir James has recently visited the barbers and that his new brand of moustache wax is slightly scented with lime; such pungency so close to one`s olfactory senses induces a slight shudder, but each to his own, I say. I also note his agitation and hot temper to be ill-advised, since his pallor, breathlessness and substantial girth all indicate some dangerous demands being made upon his heart. It appears that philanthropy and fine living do actually manage to coexist quite nicely. Charming.

“Do sit down, Sir James. Your gout must be troubling you greatly.”

A crease across his pallid brow in puzzlement, but he acquiesces with as much grace as possible (in the circumstances) and deposits his expensively clad bulk into my oxblood leather armchair (a fitting choice).

“Holmes, this is why I am here about the matter – you _know_ things! You understand how matters must be dealt with.”

I contemplate.

“I am merely a minor government official, Sir James. I am greatly flattered by such accolades, but surely, my brother- ?”

A snort emits, noisily and effectively.

“Pah! It seems he was unavailable. His assistant (Watson, I think you call the fellow) informed me that Mr Holmes the younger was engaged in the field with a significant case at present. He suggested speaking with yourself, and I recalled at once that we have had dealings in the past, and I know you to be a man of your word… trustworthy.”

I decide that words could be had with Doctor Watson when the time was right, since I detected his puckish sense of humour delighting in my current predicament. Truthfully, Prendergast was a sound enough fellow, if a little distracted by his current obsession _du jour_ – archaeology, I had surmised.

“I shall do my best.” I smile a rather waspish smile which, naturally, goes unheeded. The man is a pompous bore, but bestows much needed funds upon organisations deemed helpful to some of the more vulnerable areas of our society. If his most recent vanity project needs a little ... _assistance_ , then a Machiavellian approach might be deemed most worthwhile for the greater good.  I take out my pocketbook and select a nib from the tray, dipping it once to show diligence.

“Please elucidate, Sir James- you must tell me the name of the person casting doubt upon your dig at Aldgate, and I assure you that wheels will be set in motion.”

This time he responds splendidly (as I knew he would) and swiftly (since his mistress in Pall Mall will most likely becoming impatient) and sits forth, both meaty hands grasping my oxblood leather.

“A ridiculous notion, Holmes, a medical student – a _female_ medical student – what is the world coming to? Name of _Margaret_ , Margaret Hooper.”

 **~x~**  

** Marylebone Dispensary for Women **

** Three hours later **

Now, who would have contemplated such a notion, several notions, in point of fact? Firstly, that a female medical student should muster the  audacity and ill-advised strength of character to clash horns with the mighty self-righteousness of the moneyed classes. Secondly, that Miss Hooper`s late doctor father was quite the “radical”, petitioning Parliament most vociferously to appropriate funds for clinics in the East End and poorer parts of the city, a man who would not, in such times of political unrest, take _no_ for an answer. My sources inform me that Dr Edward Hooper caused a light sweat to break out upon the brow of the establishment on more than one occasion and was (according to my sources) branded a `person of interest`. Does the apple really fall so far from the tree? Do we now see the daughter of such a campaigner taking on the mantle of ` _truth at all costs_ `? Such people are commendable – admirable to be sure – but very difficult to manage, for the _greater good_. Finally, the third notion, and one which both pains and astonishes me in equal measure but cannot, I fear, be ignored for one more moment Thirdly, there is the notion of Miss Margaret Hooper, a current _person of interest_ also being a rather _interesting person_ to my brother, Sherlock. Now, this is quite the conundrum, and although in its infancy, this sentiment remains quite tenacious and resolute –

And it must be ended.

 **~x~**  

It is his brother, of course it is. Mycroft Holmes, seven years his senior and involved in much more than anyone concedes knowledge of.

Mycroft Holmes, dressed in fine worsted wool and silk pinstripe (oddly, a pattern also favoured by my own father), patent-shod and immaculately pressed, not dissimilar to a mannequin, and complete with furled umbrella and golden pocket watch.

Mycroft Holmes, pristine, voice articulated in very similar rhythm to his younger brother, although with a very different pitch and dissimilar jaw-line. The eyes, however, are steel gimlets, imbued with purpose yet veering slightly between good manners and disdain. They are _Holmes_ eyes, and it is in them I see Sherlock the most.

Astonishingly, this dapper gentleman is not alone, accompanied to my place of work by a small, wiry terrier, trotting daintily upon the end of a black leather leash. I am unsure as to what Doctor Garrett Anderson would make of such an invasion, but one look at Mr Mycroft Holmes tells me he is very seldom questioned or refused admittance to anywhere he chooses to enter. He lifts the dog as he sits upon the proffered chair, refusing tea and (after a moment's hesitation) a shortbread biscuit.

“It would be quite unfair to Arthur,” he smiles, indicating the grey ball of fur now residing upon those immaculate trousers, and I am abruptly reminded of something vulpine and predatory, since the smile does not manage reach those arctic eyes, and realise I may just be in alittle _trouble_.

“You have achieved so much, Miss Hooper, and done so well.”

“Thank you. I have been tremendously fortunate, and benefitted from the wonderful generosity of others.”

“No.” He strokes the dog gently, his tone like tempered steel. “No, you underestimate your own will and powerful determination, Miss Hooper. Your excellent brain, indefatigable work ethic and innumerable… assets have cemented you firmly back into the society that cruelly cast you out upon the loss of your father." 

“You knew my father, sir?”

“I knew _of_ him. I know him to have been impassioned, much as yourself; I suspect you take much of his character and conviction into your everyday life. I know how much your determination has impressed your superiors here and at St. Bart's, your patron, Countess Morcar, and not least, my own brother, Sherlock.”

His eyes are fixed upon me and I hasten to suppress the hitch in my breath, but cannot staunch the rush of blood to my face, and fancy I sense a slightly kinder caste to his tone.

“You loved your father dearly, it is clear.”

“Yes, yes I did.”

“You work too late and you dine too little, but I see very few reasons why you should not become an excellent physician and marry an impressive man of your own station when the time comes.”

Ah, this is how it is.

“So long, Mr Holmes, as this man is not your brother?”

He discreetly inclines his head towards me in acquiescence and I find I can do nought but stare down at the terrier lying listless and quiet.

“Family, Miss Hooper, are the ties that bind. Inconvenient as it is at times, I do love my brother – very much. He thrives upon the works of the brain, and does less well with the works of the heart. You are passionate and… _unpredictable_. You have deeply disappointed an enthusiastic and generous gentleman, who has done much to benefit many in this city, just as you yourself have been benefitted. He does not deserve the embarrassment and shame of a bogus claim upsetting his already questionable health and digestion. I must ask you to rescind your findings from the Neolithic bones and allow Sir James his moment to shine.”

Incredibly, the veneer of chivalrous demeanour and gentlemanly tone merely serve to enhance the menace underlying. I now see a small glimpse of the power of Mycroft Holmes and begin to understand the true extent of such – _influence._ I find I can say nothing and merely continue to observe Arthur, who is moving remarkably little for such a young animal.

“I do hope you may, at some point, comprehend my reasoning. Although it is Sir James who has approached me, it is my filial obligation to my brother that brings me to your door. It would be advisable if Sherlock knew very little of our meeting today.”

Mycroft Holmes appears a trifle puzzled by my lack of response, yet he lifts up his dog and stands, reaching for his umbrella which had been resting against the chair.

“Miss Hooper, I do hope you understand the purpose of my visit, and the dialectics behind it, since – _is there something you wish to do to my dog?”_

I hold out my arms and he allows the poor creature to be taken into them. Carrying Arthur to the examination table near the window, I reflect on his slight tremble and feeble yelp as I hold his belly. Mycroft Holmes, I imagine, is rarely lost for words, but I suddenly find him strangely silent as he looms over my shoulder and I palpate his dog's abdomen.

“Has he been off his food?”

“I – well, perhaps a little. He is usually quite greedy … Miss Hooper, where is this leading?”

I do not answer immediately, since I am shining a light into the animal's eyes. His lack of interest and weary acceptance disturbs me further.

“A young dog should be livelier than this, Mr Holmes, and his eyesight is not as it should be. Has he been stumbling? Banging into furniture?”

Mycroft Holmes is now very much on his back foot and a distant bell rings to warn me to go no further in perplexing him, but I only see a suffering animal and that bell is ignored.

“It is true, there has been mention made of his lack of agility within the last week or so. Miss Hooper, what is this distraction? Would you be so good as to share your concerns regarding my dog before the day is very much older?”

I turn, my hand still curved around the bony shoulder and trembling form of Arthur and I look Mr Mycroft Holmes directly, without fear or deference.

“Blood. I need, sir, to take some from your dog, and I need to do it immediately.”

And I do.

 **~x~**  

The lead piping was being replaced in the street behind the Diogenes Club and poor Arthur had ingested more than proved healthy, resulting in the beginnings of lead poisoning. Lethargy, lack of appetite, abdominal pain and eventual blindness were distressing symptoms in humans and are replicated in dogs, often resulting in death if left unchecked.

“ _Anisocytosis_.” I tell Mycroft Holmes, as he makes fervent arrangements for a trip to his country estate for poor, beleaguered Arthur,  whose stumpy tail manages to thump weakly at the sight of his master returning to his seat. Gone is the aloof and taciturn gaze, gone is the condescension and unspoken threat, and in its place is something much more refreshing and palatable: gratitude.

“Under the microscope, I could see his blood cells were misshapen and abnormally sized- very indicative of lead poisoning.”

“I must thank you, Miss Hooper.”

“We must both thank Mr. Leitz for his precise and meticulous Germanic engineering. I am told his instruments are second to none.”

This time, as I feel him regarding me, I know it is with a slightly less prejudicial audit, and the comportment of a very different visitor.

“Sherlock always favours the Leitz microscope for its unparalleled resolution,” he murmurs, gently stroking the head of Arthur, who is snoring softly and shedding a veritable forest of fur across his master's lap.

“Yes, I know,” I smile, and am almost giddy as he smiles back.

Standing, Mycroft Holmes attempts to leave for a second time that day, but the icy tundra is no more as he shakes my hand and quietly appraises me.

“I rarely, if ever, apologise, Miss Hooper, but I do so today. I unreservedly beg your forgiveness for making judgements that were not mine to make. It would please me greatly if you affected to erase our conversation from your memory, and when we meet again, I should prefer if you would do me the honour of not treating me as harshly as I deserve. Should you wish to decry the falsified discovery made by Sir James, I shall not attempt to restrain you. Your observations regarding the soil were extraordinary and indicative of a brilliantly deductive brain.”

He places Arthur to the ground, doffs his top hat as I curtsey, contemplating when I shall make mention of the truth behind the soil.

He leaves and I stretch my tensed shoulders, letting out a deep breath.

I decide I might leave that revelation a little while longer.

 **~x~**  

** Two days late **

** Evening in Baker Street **

Spring was proving rather tardy in making its appearance, considers Dr John Watson, struggling past the last stair and pushing open the door to the predictably cosy sitting room of 221B.

“The damp is troubling your leg, Watson,” remarks his room-mate, without looking up from a scattered pile of papers. “I felt the wince in every stair - your climbing rhythm is quite irregular today.”

Watson tosses his cane across the room, an ill humour emerging since an arduous day of patients and their malaises had prickled his countenance perhaps a little more than usual.

“Excellent diagnostics, Holmes,” mutters he, slumping into his chair and dragging half a dozen newspapers from beneath his posterior and casting them savagely to the ground. “It is more the pity you were not on hand this afternoon when Mrs Barclay presented me with a sizeable list of seemingly unrelated symptoms and refused to leave before I had presented her with a diagnosis she found pleasing.”

“Mmmm.” He was continuing to rifle through what appeared to be a shipping chart, adjusting a brass sextant as he did so, and drawing ruled lines in a multitude of directions. Curious as he was, Watson was in no mood to enquire, since he needed a cup of tea, the warmth of the fire and a platter of cheese and Bath Olivers, in that order, before he would be able to shake loose such a day.

As if sensing an alteration of the air molecules within the room, Sherlock Holmes suddenly lifts his head, much in the manner of a deer determining the smell of a predator being carried on the breeze, and gives his friend his full attention.

“Mrs Barclay? Any relation to Mr George Barclay, the milliner on Grafton Street?” he asks, causing the good Doctor to momentarily forget his woes and focus his thoughts.

“Recently married, a mere six months ago. In true point of fact, the symptoms were not ones suffered by the good lady herself, but by her new husband. She was most agitated regarding his well-being.”

Holmes was now leaning towards his friend; hunched forth, he had an elbow upon his knee and one, long finger against his lips.

“He was too ill to attend himself? Could you not have visited their home, Watson, even allowing for your leg – “

“Oh, damn my leg, Holmes!” His sharp and most uncharacteristic outburst allows the accumulated petulance to dissipate, leaving Watson immediately contrite. “Apologies, old man; there was no need for such harshness of tone. The true problem with the Barclays is his obdurate refusal to attend, or be attended by any medical person. His character, you see, has become significantly altered since their wedding. George Barclay has become irritable, withdrawn and affected a depression so deep, his wife can no longer bear witness to the man she married.”

“Ah yet, Watson, what is a fine institution for some does not appeal to all of those who naively shrug on the mantle of matrimony; such confinement, coupled with impossible demands from another may ensure a man affects a sense of _ennui_ – “

A raised brow is all that betrays the doctor's contemplation of an opinion he had heard many times before.

“Holmes, they had been a couple very much in love, as I am led to believe. Additionally, there were other symptoms, of a more medical variety.”

Holmes has his fingers templed together beneath his chin- his listening pose.

“Pray elucidate and continue in your most interesting narrative, my dear fellow.”

“Besides the refusal to attend even the smallest and most informal of gatherings with his new wife, Barclay has also developed quite a tremor, making it difficult for him to handle the materials used in his business of hat-making. Beginning in his hands, the shakes have overtaken his eyelids, his lips and even his tongue. His handwriting, apparently, is virtually illegible, due to the fact he can barely wield a pen. He sleeps very little, presents with headaches on a daily basis and barely has strength enough to lift a bolt of fabric from the stockroom. He is excitable and irritable in equal parts and his wife suspects he may no longer hold her in deep regard; she thinks that he has ceased to love her.”

Watson glances up towards his room-mate, who has made reparation to the bookcase and is briskly skimming through pages, wafting each one past as it fails to reveal for what he searches, until –

“Oh, my dear Watson!” Sherlock Holmes juts forth his chin in a triumphant grin, and takes the book across to his desk, where he consults with another.

“Mr Barclay has not fallen out of love with his wife, my dear fellow, he is in the grip of – _aha!_ ”  He casts a sheaf of paper across Watson's knee.

“Holmes, these are some of my medical papers, from University!”

“I know. I may have had cause to borrow them, on occasion.”

“How many occasions?”

“I have most of them in a box beneath my bed – _focus_ , Watson, read the heading.”

“` _Erethism and its links to Mercury poisoning_ ` - oh, dear Lord, Holmes, was someone poisoning Mr Barclay? Was it _Mrs Barclay_?”

Holmes turns, wide-eyed, momentarily. “No, no, Watson! I suspect that too much time spent with me and my less than salubrious pastimes have darkly coloured your judgement of others. No, Mr Barclay is a milliner and needs to stabilise the pelts and wools he works with to ensure that they `felt` into a fabric conducive to fashioning headwear for the masses of this great city. The best stabilising agent has always been the element of mercury, but this paper tells of research suggesting long term exposure to such a chemical can result in a condition called _erethism,_ which mirrors almost all of the symptoms described by Mrs Barclay. He is unwittingly being poisoned by his own hand, and the cure will be to find another stabilising agent, and quickly.”

Watson slumps back in his chair, in a _not unpleasant_ mixture of admiration and exhaustion.

“Extraordinary. I shall send Billy with a telegram immediately. Holmes, I do thank you and apologise once more for my recent outburst.”

“Pshsh! What do I care of outbursts? I have become, Watson, the very model of composure, tolerance and restraint. Only this morning, I learnt of another poisoning you may be interested in, this time involving a dog.”

“My dear fellow!”

“Indeed. Do draw your chair closer to the fire, my beleaguered friend, and allow me to furnish you with tea whilst I tell you how Miss Molly Hooper saved the life of Mycroft's favoured pet, and how my dear brother narrowly escaped a sound horse-whipping from his younger sibling. And to think, I woke this morning expecting the dullest of days! How thoroughly enchanting life can be.”

And so, the fire crackled in the grate, the tea was poured, and two friends took gleeful amusement in a tale of poison, false claims, threats and apologies. As John Watson warmed his hands and regarded the sparking eyes and expressive hand gestures of his friend so much caught up in his narrative, he happily realised how an enchantment can transform, delight and bring something back to life.

**~x~**

 

 


	3. Sign Two (Act I): Eros

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Occasionally, love is a yearning, a heat, a desire.

**“Desire rules over men, those half-gods vain,**

**And is the tyrant of their heart and brain. “**

**FERNAND GREGH**

 

**“Nought's had, all's spent,**

**Where our desire is got without content.”**

**SHAKESPEARE, _Macbeth_**

* * *

**~x~**

It is my third visit to the docks in as many days, and there appears little but a biting wind and a harshly pernicious scent of fish and sewage as reward for my pre-dawn exertions. And yet, my markers amongst the homeless and my trusted Baker Street Irregulars assure me that Shipwrights and Captains all leave the Inn eventually, and a merry song is always bought for an adequate shilling.

Watson and I shuffle along the quayside, collars upturned and caps pulled down snug. It would not do to exhibit too gentlemanly an appearance in such a climate, and we blend in adequately amongst the night shift dock workers and late night ne`er do wells emerging brash and raucous from dimly-lit alleyways. I have good reason to believe a ship, recently moored from Eastern climes, was currently docked in the Limehouse Wharf for only a day or two before departing for shores unknown. Our feet crunch harshly over frost-tipped gravel in the moonlit night, and our breath hangs cool and translucent in the emptiness of the foreday swell. At this hour, nothing seems real or cemented; all is changeable, volatile and uncertain. Nearing  the mooring, I sigh inwardly as a gaggle of drinkers spew forth from a nearby tavern, scattering across the quay as a gaggle of squawking seagulls and cormorants. A combination of gin, opium and _savoir faire_ buoys the group until they divide, bit by bit, into smaller groups of four, three, two, and a few singletons, shrieking farewells into the frosty calm of the early morning.

A hundred yards from our dock, I feel Watson's hand upon my shoulder and understand his message: _I am near, I have your back_ , and I am more than glad of it. As we near the berth, masts of the boats loom up, dark and sonorous, bobbing gently in the early dawn, and I sense a shuffle and a breath from a reveller, passing us nearby. Despite the relatively generous width of the path and the more than adequate light caste by the gas lamps, the man staggers slightly and has cause to steady his descent by grasping the sleeve of my jacket.  A slight and nimble fellow, he has no issue in righting his stature before mumbling several words of apology, tapping my elbow and disappearing into the encroaching morning. I hear the rhythm, but fail to catch the phonemes of his speech, which I determine should serve no more purpose than an apology.

Watson and I scramble down barnacle encrusted ladders onto the deck of a ship, late from Sumatra, and reeking of new paint and acrid bitumen, straight into the vice-like grasp of a broad, swarthy, white-haired man, so densely tattooed across the face as to make his eyes pop white in the semi-dark.

“Mr Jonathan Small,” I gasp, with less than usual vigour, “as punctual as ever. Do we have high hopes for this vessel?”

Small loosens hold (allowing me to breathe in comfort) and smiles, stepping back and clapping my shoulder. I was indeed relieved I had briefed Watson as to the identity of this particular marker, otherwise his Browning would have created quite the show and announced us to the entire Thames.

“Ah, we do, Mr Holmes, sir, we do indeed. Follow me.”

We take another ladder to the lower deck, where Small points upwards with one heavily inked arm and holds the lamp with the other. Watson and I peer at the name of the ship, displayed in red, foot high letters on her keel. If this was the _SS Appledore_ , I would be a significant step closer to solving the puzzle of  the giant rat and the mysterious death of the man who had brought it back to England with him.

“` _Matilda Briggs_ `.” Watson`s voice is heavy with despondency on my behalf. “Holmes, what a pity, I felt sure this was the ship! And after all your hard work – “

I hold up my hand to interrupt him and turn to our guide:

“Your knife, if you please, Small.”

“Now, why would I be carrying a knife, Mr Holmes, after what the Magistrate said – ”

“ _Now_ , if you please,” I beckon impatiently, ignoring a glance from Watson, and Small sighs, pulling a sheathed four inch blade from his belt.

“You'll not be mentioning this to _the_ _Beak_ , then, Sir?”

“Let`s hope I have no need- now don’t just stand there man, give me a leg up!”

Precarious as it sounds, I had no trouble resting my foot in Small`s grasp and my knee and shoulder against the rough hull as I took his knife to the painted letter `S` at the end of the name. Gently scraping with the sharpened edge of the knife (clearly not an instrument used to gut fish or cut nets; I should be having words with my well-travelled friend), I took pains in lifting just a little of the red to reveal a black slick of paint beneath.

“This paint is only five or six hours old. It still smells fresh. I have cause to think, Watson, that this is a more than a little repair.”

More paint comes away on the blade of the knife, and although Small may well be feeling my weight, I cannot rush or I will scrape too deeply, and I cannot afford to do that. A little more: the `G`, then the other, then the `I`, and on, until I feel I have exposed more than enough. I tap Small and he drops me to the deck, as Watson hands me the lantern.

“No need to be concerned, Watson, it seems all ships must port at some point in their travels.”

And we all look upwards to see the black letters`- _LEDORE_ ` beneath the red, revealed through morning mist for all to see.

 **~x~**  

 **That evening -** **Returning home**  

Holmes and I sit silent and morose in the cab, exhausted and seemingly unable to recap and delineate the findings of the day to each other, as was our usual habit. Truthfully, this case, which had begun as a light-hearted conundrum, a set of puzzle pieces a gentleman might put together for idle amusement, had taken a rather sinister, unpalatable, and repugnant turn, and we were certain that our journey of discovery would not end here.

Sherlock Holmes slouches down, arms folded, legs crossed and hat pulled down over his eyes; he could not have affected a more impenetrable barricade if he'd donned a suit of armour. The rhythmic jolt of the cab and clatter of hooves that usually serve to soothe now jar me unpleasantly, much as a tongue would probe a sore tooth, when I assemble the day's events in my mind.

Exploration of the _SS Appledore_ had elicited an excited energy from my companion as we began. Below decks, he strode purposefully hither and thither, examining piles of dust and any marks, holes,  and  items he deemed of interest. He peered through his lens, sniffed at a range of objects to which I would not care for proximity, took samples in several envelopes, and even tasted several deposits until I could bear no more.

“What do you expect to find, Holmes?”

“Everything. Nothing. We shall see.”

( _After the tasting_ ) “What is that?”

( _Shrugging, then tasting again_ ) “Most likely opium, of a very high grade. More analysis will be needed.”

( _Later still_ ) “What do you think were the contents of the bottle?”

( _Shaking his head_ ) “Whisky, rum – unimportant. I am more interested in the bottle itself.”

It was only when we reached the lowest decks upon the _SS Appledore_ that events took a more sombre turn. Jonathan Small held up the lamp in the fetid, airless, filthy room. It stretched the length of the ship with the lowest of ceilings and was divided into linked sections, in the manner of stables. Innumerable stains and splashes coloured the walls, and I noticed even Holmes was more reticent to take samples by way of mouth. It was, however, the holes that took his attention the most. Every arm's length (perhaps less) there were two sets of holes set into the wooden struts running along the side of the ship. Holmes took time to examine them from every angle, even taking out a collapsible measuring stick and crouching very low to examine marks on the floor beneath each set of holes.

I had already noticed small sections of wood seemed to be marked with darkened etchings, low to the floor and almost out of sight. Holmes beckoned to me and we both crouched down whilst Small held the lamp.

“They seem as hieroglyphics, Holmes,” I murmured as he swiftly noted them into his copybook. One consisted of four opposing curls, joined at the centre into a hollow cross; another was a more simple design, showing two interlocking diamond shapes. Another resembled a pointed spear with a curled tail, and one struck me as quite powerfully executed – a triangle resting atop a circle. Simple, yet striking.

“Not Egyptian,” breathed my companion, peering closer into the fetid darkness. “Not Egyptian, but something … _something_ I have seen before … something I have cause to know.” He turned suddenly, looking intensely into my eyes, giving me a distinct air of unease and presentiment. Before he could speak, however, Small, whose short attention span had taken him further into the next section of the hold, shouted across to us:

“Mr Holmes! Dr Watson! Come over here and see this.”

In the next bay all we saw were carved numbers, a foot apart, above each set of holes as far as the eye could see.

Back in the cab now, a mere ten minutes from Baker Street, Holmes stirs from his stupor and breathes a lengthy sigh.

“Forgive me for my truculence, Watson,” he says, surprising me with a rare and genuine apology.

“I quite understand,” I reply, shoulders shaking as I release a shudder. “That ship filled me with misgivings also - intuition tells me that something terrible has happened there." 

He gives me the same look he had proffered in the hold but a half hour earlier, this time with a steely edge in his clear eyes.

“Something terrible _has_ happened there.  Judging by the screw holds for manacles, the numbered compartments, the scratches on deck boards caused by chain links, the West African symbols scratched by a desperate hand and grievous atmosphere of despair emanating from every plank, the _Matilda Briggs_ , lately the _SS Appledore_ of Sumatra, has been very recently used as an illegal slave ship.  I am going to find who has done this, Watson, and they will be made to pay.”

As we pull to a gentle stop in front of 221B, I keep my counsel, since there is nothing more that needs to be said.

**~x~**

** 11 pm **

** Baker Street **

Watson has retired early to bed but I am restless, caring little for Mrs Hudson`s tea and oatcakes, but preferring to ingest a poison more to my liking. My flatmate has outrageously conspired with the cunning and wily Molly Hooper to reduce my tobacco intake, since they insist both have seen too many autopsied lungs of heavy smokers to believe it could ever be of benefit to one's respiratory system. However true this may be, I am currently finding the lack of _Finest Virginia_ (or even a solitary cigarette) a very tedious and irksome cross to bear, considering the long and rather appalling day we have spent at the Limehouse Wharf.

Thus, I find myself at the foot of my own stairs, fretfully searching my greatcoat pockets for an errant cigarette; such deep pockets must surely elicit an offering of some kind of solace.

And as I pull out the grubby envelope addressed in a well-educated female hand, I realise that _indeed they have_ …

_My dear Mr Sherlock Holmes,_

_Do forgive my rather irregular (and perhaps imprudent) delivery of this epistle. I have audaciously wished to take a look at `the Great Detective` before he had chance to bestow his all-seeing gaze upon me. I always like to make my judgements first, and I have heard how you can lay bare a man`s livelihood by a glance at his cuffs (or a woman`s for that matter)._

_You may or may not have heard my name mentioned in some quarters, depending how au fait you are with certain types of newspapers and certain types of gossip. I have enjoyed my time in the spotlight, Mr Holmes, and regret very little of the kind of life I have led - after all, a life half lived is barely a life at all. Perhaps a need to seek approval, however, induced me to make what has become the greatest mistake of my life – marrying my husband._

_To remain within the bounds of genteel behaviour, I shall decline from listing the reasons that my husband must no longer be allowed to continue as such; suffice to say, I know you will find interest in my plight when I call upon you at twelve midday tomorrow. Whether you sympathise with my problem or not interests me little (as it is most likely that you do not), but I rather think you may find the intellectual exercise worth your while. Why? Because you are Sherlock Holmes, and it is your business to know what others do not._

_I knew that if I was to employ an agent to find my solution, it would be you, the celebrated Sherlock Holmes, and if you happen to vacillate in your approval of  my visit , be assured that I am more than familiar with the rat that deserts the ship which is sinking._

_Until then,_

_Mrs Irene Norton (nee Adler)_

The picture she encloses is really rather irrelevant, since even my own limited knowledge of popular arts and musical comedy has the name of Irene Adler cemented firmly in its firmament. Tall, elegantly clad and bejewelled, with just the correct amount of scandalous red tint across her mouth.

The youth who had jostled me at the wharf – _goodness_ , I should really have had my wits about me ( _damn the single minded focus Watson insists I am enslaved to_ ). To think, I have carried this epistle halfway across London without knowing it. If Watson does decide to recount this particular tale, I should perhaps insist on some editorial influence.

Irene Adler (certainly until her marriage to Mr Edward Norton, businessman and newspaper heir) had the headstrong and ridiculously privileged gentry in her thrall. During our early friendship, John Watson had followed her `adventures` with a rather avid interest which I determined I should discourage, when I had the time and inclination to do it. Needless to say, Watson grew bored and continued in his search for a mate without further recourse to Miss Adler and her ilk.

Perusing the image once more, I abandon my search for tobacco and decide to repair to my own bed. I suspect I shall most likely need my wits about me at midday tomorrow.

 **~x~**  

 ** On the morrow, f ** ** our minutes past midday **

** 221B Baker Street **

“Madam, you are most punctual.”

“Apparently, it is the politeness of kings… according to the ones of my acquaintance, anyway.”

I am ridiculously pleased I could attempt a joke to jostle him a little, but Sherlock Holmes retains a blank impassivity that threatens to breach the boundaries of professional courtesy and spill over into imperiousness. He glances only occasionally my way from beneath hooded eyes, standing as he does by his chaotic mantelpiece whilst I sit in the armchair opposite. A perfectly gentlemanly arrangement, were it not for his subtle need for command of the situation.

I find it terribly attractive when a man who knows of my celebrity does his best not to acknowledge it, taking the higher moral ground and attempting to ignore my former standing as actress, entertainer, adventuress… 

Wonderfully, he nods curtly, looking away and scanning the detritus of the mantel and then the rest of the room, and I know that hunted, slightly panicked look about the eyes.  Of his eyes I scarcely dare tell, since their beauty had almost disarmed me as I was ushered into the room by a less than approving housekeeper (I am no stranger to those, I assure you).

I reach into my bag, retrieving a slim, engraved case, and I am positive I have his full attention and his _craven yearning_ –

“Cigarette?”

His eyelids lower fractionally, lips parting in infinitesimal longing as he draws in my offer, then despairingly (I would imagine) rejects it.

(Shaking his head) “I have been told my lungs would not thank me.”

But I do not yield so easily, and hold aloft my own cigarette.

“If you would be so kind?”

And I enjoy the darkening of the light above me as he leans forward with a taper, discomfort overcoming disdain, and I enjoy the heat of his proximity almost as much as the first, delicious inhalation. In the next instance, my grip has loosened, my cigarette case skitters across the satin expanse of my skirts, and I notice with admiration his lightning reaction in arresting its fall before handing it back to me.

“Thank you, Mr Holmes.”

 A second later, he has returned to the safety of his mantel where he remarks:

“Your maid has not been incapacitated too long, I see.”

I arch my brow, enjoying him, breathing him in.

“Oh, Sarah is quite the drama queen; one sniffle and it`s typhoid fever. She has barely been off one day and already I find the silence irritating.”

“Indeed. Your poorly-laced bodice is so out of keeping with the remainder of your apparel that I imagine she has suddenly been taken ill, not allowing you time to draft in a temporary replacement. The buff of your boots and hat and immaculacy of your jewellery attest to her usual standards being second to none. You would rather lace your own corsets than call upon a less reliable attendant. You clearly hold some affection for her and are reluctant to trust another. The clay adhering to your instep has the unusual blue-grey tinge peculiar to West London (Belgravia in particular), where my Irregulars tell me there has been an outbreak of typhus amongst the waiting staff of several large houses.”

He stops suddenly, and I am so impressed that I almost forget my own mask of seductive flirtation before I recover enough to comment. He is everything I  have been told (and more).

“You had me at _bodice_ ,” I smile.

**~x~**

 

 ** At The Marylebone Dispensary, a ** ** t that very moment **

Mr Collins looks at me, but I know the glassy stare of the uncomprehending and feel a hot flush of helplessness sweep across my face.

“She isn't moving. At all.”

“Mr Collins – “

“She was moving a mere moment ago… moving and smiling, and saying my name.”

“Sir, you need to sit down here, and let me – " 

“She was thirsty, and she said, ` _Robert, my mouth is so dry, like peppery twigs_ ,’ and I thought, wasn’t that an odd turn of phrase? `Peppery twigs’…?” He actually turns to me now (rather than staring through me), saying:

“My dear, my wife needs a glass of water. Would you be so kind?”

I hold his elbow and attempt to draw him from the bedside. Starched white sheets are tainted lightly with ink, from his fingertips. He is a printer and has rushed away from work to see his wife, who had been recovering so well from a burst appendix…

“It was the _sepsis_ , Mr Collins. It struck so quickly, and she was already so weak from the surgery.”

I attempt to steer him away once more, but he appears to shake off both my hand and my attempts at explaining why his twenty seven year old wife lies white and cold and still, in the last bed she would ever lie in. The clock ticks steadily above the door of the ward, measuring time pointlessly as I stand in front of a man being savagely assaulted with what being human really means.

“Your wife is dead, Mr Collins,” I hear a small, far away voice say. “She could not survive the infection and she has died. We tried all we could. I am very sorry.” It appears it is _my_ voice.

He stares again at me, and I feel I might prefer the blank incomprehension.

“Fetch me a doctor,” he whispers, employing a quiet savagery I had hitherto not seen.

“Mr Collins, I am – “

 _“Girl –_ “ his voice but a venomous whisper. “It is more than insupportable to stand in front of a man and tell him such atrocities. I need a _medical man_ and you must fetch  one immediately, or Lord help me, I shall not be responsible for my actions.”

 _Silly_ Molly Hooper, heart pounding and cheeks flaming, running from the furious grief of a man who has lost all he loved, and wishing she had never wanted to become a physician to begin with. Medicine is all very well, you see, until it involves the _people_.

**~x~**

** In Baker Street, ha** **lf past twelve **

Mrs Irene Norton (nee Adler) is seemingly no different to the approximately sixty-four percent of the lone females who inhabit the client's chair in that she too has been wounded by an affair of the heart. Watson decries my laconic and often openly distrustful attitude towards the fairer sex, but (with small exception) I have seen little in my line of work to dissuade me from such an opinion. Expectations are most often impossibly high and romantic love seems doomed to fail, since humanity can do nought but sink to its natural level of selfishness and mistrust.

Perhaps unfortunately for myself, I am keenly aware of a person's disposition and history within moments of first meeting them. I observe, they request my observations (or not), and the degree of intimacy that then exists due to my knowledge of them creates some degree of discomfort for us both, which usually precludes that gradual intimacy that friendship or `love’ requires. Watson occasionally deems this my `curse’, but I mostly find it liberating, knowing what I have noted regarding the sixty-four percent. Statistics do not lie, and there is nothing more vengeful than a thwarted spouse.

“He gambles, he drinks to excess, he whores regularly, indiscriminately and most indiscreetly, and worse than all that, Mr Holmes …”

I temple my fingers beneath my lips, since her eyes constantly return there as if appraising their design, and wait.

“He _bores me_. What was once a thrilling diversion from a life I had tired of now  sets me yearning for the stage and the cobbles of Drury Lane.”

“Then leave him,” I reply, also quite bored. Her instep is brutishly high and overly stretched; I would certainly have deduced _dancer_ had I not already known.

She arches fine brows across feline green eyes as her fingers twitch towards her bag. I ardently hope she will not smoke in front of me again; the longing for tobacco has made mockery of any strength of character I imagined I had. It would not do to inhale too near a client, as Watson has deemed it less than professional.

“I am significantly more wealthy than Mr Edward Norton and do not wish to share one more penny of my hard-won fortune with the opium-smuggling buffoon who insists upon dragging me into the mire alongside him. I would immediately divorce him had he not suddenly and inconveniently disappeared without trace. I need you to find him, Mr Holmes, and drag him back from whichever hell-hole he as climbed into.”

“You imagine him to know of your plans and to be in hiding?”

“Oh no, Edward has very little insight and absolutely no deductive reasoning skills. It seems that broad shoulders and an excellent seat in the hunting saddle does not a husband make, sir. It would seem acumen and wit are my new seducers. My husband, Mr Holmes, is most definitely in hiding, but I suspect his simple ways have made him subject to homespun superstition and primitive fear.”

She reaches into her valise, but not for the cigarette case that had caught my attention earlier.

“Three days after he returned from his latest voyage, my husband packed a few basic items from his wardrobe and made good his escape. One day later, this parcel arrived for him - it intrigued me, and caused my maid to collapse into a faint and take to her bed with imagined ailments. Tell me, _Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective_ – what do you think dear Eddie has been up to this time?”

The cloying and familiar waft of formaldehyde catches my throat as I peer down to see a dozen poppy heads, three mummified finger tips (complete with blackened nails) and a primitively minted coin showing the two interlinked diamonds I had seen upon the slave ship _SS Appledore._  

“I am so glad you like them,” she speaks softly, with odd intonation and cadence. “Although I am afraid we had to throw away the rat they arrived in.”

 **~x~**  

** Eighteen minutes after one … **

** 221B Baker Street **

I alight into the cab, gathering claret satin skirts and furs, velvet mufflers, kid leather gloves and valise. Truthfully, I am wealthy, assured and replete, yet at this moment my heart holds an inner emptiness, a mild yet distinct yearning for emotions I had not known I lacked. How irritating it is now (particularly in my current frame of mind) to witness the rarest and most singular of phenomena – unexpected love.

I had delighted in watching the rather splendid reaction of Sherlock Holmes to my domestic conundrum. Clearly, he had cause to be excited at such a repugnant assortment of goods, and assured me that he would have very little trouble in retrieving my reluctant divorcee-in-waiting.  He was confident in restoring my status quo, however, I now sharply feel the loss of his attentions. The cut of his coat, the curve of his cheekbone, the light in his eye and the indifference that poured from every fibre of his being served only to draw me to him and ensure that my interest never waned.  From many sources I have heard word of his cerebral machinations and successful solvings within the criminal quarters of this great city (as well as his rather undiluted opinions regarding women). Sherlock Holmes is the name which all mothers of master criminals bandy about at bedtime; he is the cautionary tale told to all potential law breakers at their coming of age. He is cocksure, he is vainglorious, he is conceited, and I absolutely _adored_ him. And more than that – I _wanted_ him.

After picking my way through the artful chaos of his Baker Street sitting room, I had taken my leave and allowed him a nod in my direction. The housekeeper (mercifully) was otherwise engaged as I made my own way down the staircase towards my waiting carriage. Sherlock Holmes is so famed and cherished amongst the intelligentsia of London that I was not surprised to see a client ascending the same stair I walked down, indeed I was thrilled to see his consultation so sought after.

The woman coming towards me was small -tiny, even- and her hair had a deeply auburn tint which could only hint at Celtic, or some similar heritage.  She was poor, I could see. Her clothing, shoes and luggage gave this girl an air of optimism, while still settling for what she might hold on to.

“Excuse me, good afternoon.” her mouth was meagre, but shaped as perfectly as any pre-Raphaelite could have envisioned. Deepest brown eyes (so unusual, with the hair) and freckled of cheek, she held her skirts as a lady would, even though a lady would never hold _those_ skirts.

A door( _the_ door) creaked open and a shadow fell across the landing.

The auburn-haired girl nodded to me as she passed, and I was close enough to see the shine cast across her eye as she glanced upwards.

I was on the fourteenth stair down as I felt the creak of her ascension to the top landing. The page held the door ajar, but time allowed a final afflictive glance upwards.

I could do nought but stop and listen.

“Sherlock.”

“Miss Hooper… _Molly_.”

 “My _word_ _…”_

“I am atrocious. Please attribute my appalling behaviour to the lack of yourself. You have only _yourself_ to blame, Molly Hooper.”

_(At this juncture there was a pause; it rather appalled me.)_

Then:

“Someone has died.”

“People die every minute of every day.”

“Yes. I hate it.”

“Yes.”

“I may wish to be a doctor of those who are already dead - a _Persephone_ in the underworld.”

“Admirable.”

“How was your day?”

“Mmm… unpredicted.”

“Really?”

“No. Your hair is incandescent. It is bewitching, _malfeasant_. There may be need of a by-law…”

“You are truly ridiculous.”

“I attribute all to the owner of the hair.”

“Then all is as it should be.”

There were the low murmurings of laughter as the door closed.

Thus, I settled into my carriage contemplating a bittersweet arrangement. To love is a flaw, a failing; it is an all-encompassing panoramic viewpoint of the world. It is nothing and it is everything, and I adore it to its very being. He loves – and so he is weak.

He is not invulnerable. He may yet fall.

 

**~x~**

 


	4. Sign Three: Philia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Your friends are the family that your choose for yourself.

**“Loyalty is what we seek in friendship."** **(Cicero)**

 **“It's not how many friends you can count, but how many of those you can count on.”** **(Anthony Liccione)**

* * *

 

  

** Three days later, i** **n a Hansom, en route to Great Scotland Yard **

In his dealings with the constabulary my friend Sherlock Holmes was often of the opinion that least said, soonest mended. That is, to share only what was absolutely necessary. Many times, Gregson, Lestrade, Simpson, and numerous other members of the Capital's law enforcement consulted with Holmes on matters that required his assistance. This happened fairly frequently- _“Whenever they are out of their depth – which is always – they consult me.”_ \- yet Holmes was often less than forthcoming with cases that had come his way privately. I was, therefore, a little surprised to learn of our destination, and to discover that Detective Inspector Lestrade himself was accompanying us on a visit to the Limehouse Quayside to (presumably) shed more light upon the dreadful business of the _SS Appledore_.

I was also soon to learn that Holmes had not been idle.

“There were traces of opium everywhere on the ship, Watson,” he mused, fingers drumming restlessly atop his walking stick , as if attempting to hasten the journey. “It was clearly being used to import opiates as well as its African captives.”

“You know it was slaves, then? ”

“It was not used for transporting convicted criminals, since their shackles would never have been fixed so close together. It seems the rules governing  criminals of this country do not stretch to the enslaved. The numbers, too, Watson; branded into the planks of the hold. The crew would have not bothered with names or titles for slaves, just numbers.  The decks and compartments had been repaired several times with _cimaru_ , a hardwood native to the tropics, Sumatra in particular, showing that adaptations had been made while the ship was on voyage, picking up its `cargo`. The bottle I found was a brand of rum very specific to a certain area.”

“Of the tropics?”

“No, of the East End. This variety is distilled exclusively in Brackshaw`s, on Tierney Street, a mere five minutes’ walk from the dock.”

“But Holmes, Brackshaw`s is a renowned opium den!”

He shrugs.

“Amongst other things. Lestrade has been rather helpful of late. He has located a small set of rooms in the vicinity of Brackshaw`s and the _SS Appledore_ which have been rented by a certain Mr Edward Norton, husband of one Irene Adler; a man both surplus to requirements and without the most basic sense of self-preservation, demonstrated by his lack of an alias. It was here, Watson, that he felt free to indulge his baser instincts away from his wife and society alumni before his unfortunate and macabre delivery this week.”

“Hiding in these rooms would be rather obvious, would it not? Even for such a stupid fellow.”

Holmes uttered a humourless huffing noise, illustrating his disdain.

“Such a degree of stupidity as to confound even the most average brain, Watson. No, the man himself will not be there, but I need to see where he has been; more data is needed.”

Rhythmic hooves punctuate the silence for several minutes before Holmes breaks from his reverie to comment:

“Lestrade really has proved himself uncommonly useful these past few days. He is indeed the least ineffectual of the Yarders.”

I felt a pang at his words and remembered my neglect of this whole affair, owing solely to my increasing workload at the Marylebone Dispensary. The issue of illegal slave trading had haunted my dreams for days, and so any progress in the case was tremendously useful, but still –

“Watson, do not trouble yourself. Your conscience is admirable, but this is my livelihood, not yours, and you must nurture your future prospects at every juncture. Lestrade has found mention in police records that the Captain and several crew members of the _SS Appledore_ have either gone missing or been found dead. I do believe the first mate found his way onto Molly Hooper`s table at Bart's before Christmas.  To change a ship's name is regarded as unlucky, but even before the _Appledore_ became the _Matilda Briggs_ , there were relentless whispers  in the maritime community that the vessel was cursed." 

I chose to ignore his frighteningly accurate summation of my private thoughts.

“ _Cursed_? Surely, in this day and age–”

Holmes leans forward, bringing his pocket book from his inner jacket. Flipping open page after page of his spider-like scrawl, he locates a recent entry with copied insignia, several of which I recognised from the lower decks of _SS Appledore_.

“These are all talismans, used by the _Akhan_ people of Ghana. They are called _Adinkra_ symbols and are used to express sentiment, as  well as to send warnings.” His long fingers trace their shapes as he continues.

“These four interlocking curls centred upon a cross are ram`s horns, signifying strength. This was found in the rat sent to Davy Smailes, the bo`sun and chief flogger. The captain's diary tells how he would lay a slave across the windlass, tying his feet and hands before flogging him to within an inch of his life. Mr Smailes was found face down, floating beneath the jetty last Thursday gone.”

“My God, Holmes.”

He continues, relentless.

“This one, a triangle above a circle, is called _Sepo_ and represents an executioner's knife and justice. It was found in the possessions of Jeremy Smith, ship's surgeon and the man responsible for keeping as many slaves alive as possible during the journey. Large penalties would be incurred if more than one in eighteen died during the crossings, however it was often more than a third. The diary describes the hold, with its loathsome stench, fetid air and near suffocation. Smith would battle pestilence, typhus, and flux, and he and the crew told the slaves that `bad spirits’ would kill them if they attempted to fight back. In truth, they were too weak and devastated by disease to take a stand." 

I can only shake my head. I knew of such atrocities, but hearing the words spoken of such a recent voyage brought a weight to my chest I could not shift.

“Smith was found half crazed and near death in his lodgings near the wharf and now resides at the Bethel. When they found him, he was still clutching the rat and its contents. Watson, no other crew members have been found, alive or dead. They have fled, presumably afraid for their lives. Mr Norton, I believe, had connections with this ship, else would he have received this warning? Too stupid to have the wherewithal to deal with human cargo, but opium? Much more his glass of tea, I should think.”

He leans back into his seat as the cab rounds the corner of Northumberland Avenue and continues to Great Scotland Yard.

“Either way, we shall soon see his lodgings. Let us hope they are more eloquent in their revelations than is the man himself.”

**~x~**

** Tierney Street,  ** ** Limehouse Wharf **

** East London **

Cold night had descended, thick with a layer of creeping, greasy estuary fog making its way up from the river. It was indeed a night for mufflers and lanterns as myself, Holmes and Lestrade (flanked by two constables) crept warily betwixt doss house, tavern and opium den. Few brave souls frequented the area on such an ugly evening, and most had good sense enough to be indoors beside a fireplace.

“If we can find a living witness, this business can be cracked wide open, Mr Holmes- we've had our suspicions about this dock for a number of years… Ah, I think this is the place – break down the door if needed, Johnson.”

“No.” Holmes had brought out his lock picks, and within a minute we were entering a low ceilinged hallway with peeling paint and a strong stench of damp and... something else.

“Smoke,” murmured my friend. “There has been a recent fire.”

Bounding up the stairs, we found a small, non-descript bedroom adjoined to a small office, which had the honour of housing the only window in the entire residence. Gloomy and sparsely furnished, papers were piled high on the desk and several empty bottles of rum were perched on various surfaces, silently telling their own sorry tale. Holmes was everywhere at once as we entered the scene. As the constables flanked the lower door, Lestrade and I stood and watched as he took his data from that place, just as you or I would take it from a morning newspaper.

At length he stood, snapping his lens shut and turning to us, mouth grimly set but eyes sparkling. I knew the signs.

“Mr Norton spent the days before his disappearance in a most agitated and anxious state. The blotting paper upon his desk shows a tremulous hand, which was not his customary style, judging by the letters in this pile. There is a worn path of footsteps in the dust leading to the window, all made by Norton himself. The frequent (and recent) scrapings of his chair in the boards below show how often he stood up to check the window. He knew something-or someone-was coming for him. These door locks are obviously new and shards of metal at the base of the window show the recent addition of a stout lock. As if that wasn’t enough, you see here, gentlemen, that the window has also been nailed shut. “

He walks over to the grate, crouching down and reaching into the charred fireplace where it is obvious there had been a recent blaze.

“In spite of a full coal scuttle here, Mr Norton chose to burn a great deal of paper rather than trouble its contents. It was not warmth he sought, but secrecy in the destruction of his past.”

Holmes then retrieved his notebook once more, flipping to a symbol showing two interlinked diamonds.

“Last week, Mr Edward Norton was sent this symbol enclosed in the belly of a rat, a creature hailing from overseas and that had followed him back home with its warning within. This is _Epa_ , the handcuffs, symbolising bondage. I saw the symbol  on the ship, I saw it in his package and I see it here today.”

We look across to the grate where, amongst three or four cremated poppy heads, lay two charred pieces of wire, fashioned into interlocking diamonds, glinting in the light of our lamps.

**~x~**

** Two days later,  ** ** St. Bart`s Mortuary **

Holmes had always been quite fond of discounting the truth of coincidence. He would suggest that there were, in fact, no accidents, only logical causations predictable to the trained mind (meaning his own, naturally). Thus, I was perhaps a little more prepared than I might have been as I met Detective Inspector Lestrade in the corridor at Bart's morgue for the _third_ time that week.

“Good afternoon, Doctor.” He greeted me quite jovially, all things considered. We had reached an _impasse_ with the case, resulting in my more frequent avoidances of Baker Street whilst a surly Sherlock Holmes paced intermittently amongst the fug of his own tobacco and dark thoughts. As we made our way to the mortuary, Lestrade made polite enquiry regarding my new practice.

“I am finding it challenging, yet rewarding. The company is rather pleasant when I need respite,” (here Lestrade nodded sagely) “as Miss Hooper is frequently around to converse with.”

To my surprise, I then witnessed a distinct discomfort outlined in his features -he is suddenly a bit ill at ease. He jostles the file beneath his arm and suddenly cannot leave my presence quickly enough, making his excuses and beating a hasty retreat to the Yard.  Shaking my head, I enter the swing doors of the morgue to seek out the lady in question. She has been granted permission to assist in the re-autopsy of the bo’ sun, Davy Smailes, and promised a most copious set of notes regarding the tissue samples. As desirous as Holmes had been to retrieve them personally, I had suggested that his latest black mood and lapse into tobacco might be less than impressive to a woman of Miss Hooper`s gentility.

“Watson,” he had replied to this, “Molly slices corpses and lances pustules on a daily basis; her gentility would be quite compromised were she such a delicate flower.” And despite his ill-humour, an approving glint appeared in his eye, and the shadow of a smile across his lips. “I thank the Lord that she is not.”

Nevertheless, I was glad to take the errand and pleased to see her scribbling away at a desk in the corner rather than elbows deep in some poor soul's chest cavity. As ever, she appeared thrilled to see me and insisted on a recount of our progress in the case and a full reportage on the current humour of my flat-mate.

“Best avoided,” was my wry response, earning a twitch of the corner of her mouth. “Unlike Detective Inspector Lestrade, it would seem. Three times I have witnessed him in these corridors- I had no idea he liaised first hand with the mortuary here.”

Molly Hooper`s large dark eyes widen slightly as she nods.

“Goodness, yes, I have seen much of Mr Lestrade of late. He is the most thorough breed of policeman and I quite see how Sherlock trusts him- more than the others, in any case. Inspector Lestrade has had cause to share some case notes with me on several occasions this week, and he values my opinion, which is a marvellous thing for a doctor so inexperienced as I.”

“Indeed it is,” I agree, recalling Lestrade’s earlier reaction and attempting to repress a slowly burgeoning theory that had been nudging at my skull. “Have you been able to shed light upon those cases?”

She turns, sighing ruefully.

“I would think not, Doctor. I am a hopeless ingénue in the ways of criminal medicine. He was very charming, however, speaking of his family in Dorset, and his plans to take a wife when the time is right. A very dear man, to encourage my career when his own time is so limited.”

As I doffed my bowler and bid her farewell, I had good cause to contemplate recent events.

In truth, it seemed Holmes was right- the universe was far from lazy after all.

**~x~**

** Great Scotland Yard, l** **ater that day **

If only the blasted case was going as well as I’d like it to, I'd have myself a little distraction, see? If the case down at Limehouse was turning up an over-privileged drug smuggler and a boat load of slave runners, I'd be kicking my height, impressing both the Commissioner and Sherlock Holmes in one fell swoop, wouldn’t I? But the case _isn’t_ going well; there has been no sign of Edward Norton, and the autopsy on the bo`sun threw up nothing new regarding the cause of death, bar the rictus scowl on the body when it was found (attesting to the fanciful notion of Davy Smailes being _scared_ to death).

Oh, I know Mr Holmes is up and running with his theory of a `cursed’ ship, but I find my comfort in good, old fashioned police work, which can take time, and has little tolerance for fanciful notions.

_In that same vein…_

I blame Mr Sherlock Holmes for a fair few brickbats that come my way in my line of work. He is a great man, but can sometimes act in a way which makes us forget that he is a good one. He has the ideas, no-one can deny that, and his processes of deduction (as fanciful as they can appear) have helped us unravel many a case Gregson or I would have deemed unsolvable. However, his unorthodox methods of approaching a case and (frankly) blatant disregard for police procedure, staffing, or chain of command have led  to some rather uncomfortable discussions with the Yard Commissioner of an evening, where tempers have oft been frayed to the last thread. In addition, I also lay the blame for my current predicament at the door of Mr Holmes, since it was he who decided to take Miss Margaret Hooper under his wing – make her his _protégé,_ if you will – thus bringing her to my attention. Since noticing Miss Hooper, you see, I have been able to think of little else. Her kindness, beauty, skill, and perfect gentility have fairly knocked the wind out of the sails of a man who swore he wouldn’t be bound by the constraints of matrimony. Despite the lady's insistence on entering such an ugly, man's world, she is quite the most fragrant flower in the nasty, grime-filled piece of London slime that is my line of work. Truthfully, I fear I have not been able to keep away these last few days, since she has been quite the soothing balm on these grey and gritty winter days. For someone like Sherlock Holmes to express such a profound  interest in the her potential lets me know what a rare and precious find she is, fallen on ill-luck since the death of her parents and doing her best to struggle through life alone. She is a gentle creature that must be protected and nurtured, see? Gregory Lestrade may not be titled or landed gentry, but he knows how to care for a woman, especially one who may have cause to become his lifelong companion.

I had always believed that marriage wasn’t for me (not my division, you might say), but it seems I`m a bit of a fool for love, and Miss Margaret Hooper may soon find that her troubles could be over.

**~x~**

** The very next evening **

** Fieldgate Street, Whitechapel,  ** ** The Six Bells Public House **

I must admit that I do enjoy drinking here, even after that nasty business a few years ago. People don`t forget, but I'm a local in these parts, and I won't be cowed by no murderer, no matter how famous he might be. Tobias Gregson usually makes mention to join me but most times has some distraction due to his domestic situation, so it makes quite a nice change to have him here, drinking his porter and easing himself into the snug`s best settle opposite the crackling fire.

“Mrs Gregson at her mother's I take it?”

“Oh, absolutely, Lestrade, and I`m surely making the most of it!”

He grins his huge, ruddy faced grin as he takes a sup of ale, gathering a halo of foam about his gingery whiskers for his trouble.

“And you, my lovelorn lad? Has the delightfully fragrant Miss Hooper given you her hand yet? This time next year, it might be _you_ confined to hearth and home of an evening, kneeling at the feet of our favourite lady doctor!”

Used as I am to his ribald, Gaelic humour, I am chagrined to discover an ugly heat of embarrassment creeping across my cheeks- confound the Scottish buffoon and his roughshod ways!

As it happened, that day I had visited Miss Hooper on legitimate Yard business, as Sanderson, one of our pathologists, had mislaid some of her notes and replacements were required. And, seeing as things had been a little quiet … ( _and I happened to be passing by_ )…

Approaching the door of the mortuary, I determined upon a little rehearsal. Although used to speaking to a roughened bunch of constables and sergeants on a regular basis, I often felt a little unpractised in conducting a conversation of a more genteel disposition. Previously, we had quickly exhausted the topics of weather, work and general health, and I wished to have more stimulating topics (without being overly familiar, of course) with which to impress her. The approaching Diamond Jubilee of our dear Queen; the price of coal in the inner city this winter; brass band concerts in the Marylebone Gardens; who would be elected Mayor in the upcoming elections… the list was promising, and I felt sure the lady would find a topic to her taste. I found myself in the (admittedly ridiculous) position of standing outside of the mortuary door, contemplating my opening words (and her responses) when I became aware of a sound coming from within. A low murmur of voices, culminating in a restrained rumble of laughter. I became a little concerned – who would be finding humour in a mortuary?

Water was running and the metallic clang of metal clashing into wood momentarily cut through the rest. A familiar resonance reached my ears; that of a revolving coin or metal object coming to rest in a gradually less and less agitated manner, until it was entirely still. A split second was allowed before another murmuration of restrained laughter ensued, lighter and feminine this time, and I decided to open the door and offer my assistance, whether or not it was needed.

The click and creak of the old door did much to announce my presence should any skulduggery be in the offing, but in the event, I was astonished and pleased to see both Miss Margaret Hooper and Mr Sherlock Holmes, attending to note-taking and microscoping in various parts of the laboratory. No trespassers nor ne`er do wells to trouble people going about their daily business.

“Ah, Lestrade, I sincerely hope you come with a signed confession from our missing gentleman smuggler.”

Mr Holmes appeared at home as ever in the laboratory, his apparel immaculate (bar a tiny conflagration of his cravat which, having caught my eye-line, he then adjusted). I have rarely seen a gentleman better turned out, you see, and I was more than happy to see him in a better humour this day.

I shook my head in regret and outlined my request for Miss Hooper. I noted her skin to be flushed, her eyes sparkling and a tendril of hair to be escaping from her chignon, yet she looked more beautiful than I recalled from even the day before, and it was all I could do to retain my professional demeanour.

Before she was afforded chance to reply, Mr Holmes was swift to exhibit his opinion of Sanderson`s professionalism in the form of a rather unrestrained expulsion of air.

“Idiot!” was the general weight of his meaning, issued before smoothing back his hair and returning to his slides.

Handing me a copy of her notes, Miss Hooper assured me how happy to see me she was, and that she would love to discuss the up and coming brass band concerts in the Gardens, but had a tremendous amount of work to get through and felt awful, but needed to shorten and postpone our meeting, perhaps for another occasion?

As I left, I pondered how Holmes was able to work, without distraction, within a mere room`s distance of such an enticing young lady and I envied his easy distance from love and attraction.   How simple a man`s life must be in which he is a brain without a heart, and no mistake. I bade my farewells, and as I picked up my hat, I righted the metal bowl that lay upturned beside it.

How strange that a small sprig of bright yellow celandine, a flower that heralds the spring, should be nestled beneath it. A flower in a morgue? As practical a man as I  often spots the most vital clues in the oddest of places, and such an occurrence is not altogether lost on me – the flower most likely contains toxins that need distilling or some such, but I`ll leave that to the experts. 

Science? Not my division, see.

**~x~**

** A few days later,  ** ** The Marylebone Gardens, London **

** Lunchtime **

I half rise from my seat as I see her approaching, but her pace is so brisk and efficient I barely have time to raise my hat before she is beside me, bringing a smile as bright and fresh as the early spring day that witnesses it. Speedwell blue eyes flash in my direction, and pale hair, the colour of early primroses, peeps from beneath her bonnet.

“John.”

“Mary.”

A lucent sky and budding branches add wonderfully to the lightness of my mood as we gently perambulate along the immaculate gravel pathways and past flower beds burgeoning with promise. I point upwards with my stick as a sweeping murmuration of starlings takes flight above the lake and the impressive Benedictine Fountain, and she takes my arm and smiles as she says my name. A nurse at the Marylebone Dispensary, I had only met Miss Mary Morstan two weeks previously, when she and Molly Hooper had been discussing the need for some new bedding and disinfectants. We had exchanged pleasantries, and I had been immediately struck, not only by her beauty, but also by her sharp wit, humour, and quite miraculous interest in me.  An orphan, Miss Morstan lived in modest lodgings barely three miles from Baker Street, and I soon found myself suggesting a visit to the British Museum.

“Do you enjoy museums, Doctor Watson?” She tilts her head, bright eyes searching my own, and I ready my lips to form the expected response, but something in her face stops me, and I reply:

“Ah, not especially, actually.”

And her porcelain face shifts into a playful and knowing smile as she says:

“Then let us not go! Let us go _elsewhere_ , somewhere without the encumbrance of dusty ceramics and ancient bones to trouble us.”

And I knew then that Miss Mary Morstan was indeed someone more vibrant than I had anticipated, and certainly less than commonplace, both being attributes I prize above all others.

Back in Marylebone Park, we pause and gaze up at the Italian marble fountain and its hypnotic, rhythmic, cascading torrents.

“Do I remain your secret, John, or do your friends know of me? Does Mr Sherlock Holmes know his best friend has a _new_ friend?”

With the unpleasant business of the slave ship hanging over us, I have been more than willing to keep Miss Morstan detached and protected from all of it. As for such a discussion with Holmes, particularly in the current climate, I truly had no idea where I would begin. I begin to form words to express and apologise for such reasoning, but she squeezed my sleeve gently, interrupting:

“Take your ease, John. I rather think your world is full beyond reckoning at present. I am sure I shall meet your friends and family when you decide you are ready.”

It was then and there that I knew she was the woman I would marry.

 **~x~**  

 ** Two days later,  ** ** Great Scotland Yard **

** Evening **

I am about to berate the clerk for the lack of coal in the scuttle (again) when John Watson`s head pops round my door, his face a mask of alarm and consternation.

“Lestrade, you must attend! The Marylebone Dispensary – Molly Hooper may be in danger – _at once_!”

Crashing through endless corridors, a plethora of fearful thoughts tumbling through my head, I follow close on the heels of Watson, summonsing two constables on my way. Mr Holmes, it would seem, was in the cab ahead of us with one of his Baker Street Irregulars, who had received word of a threatening situation at the Dispensary. In our cab, the good doctor furnished me with details of the situation, but my heart could not quieten and an odd mix of fear and barely repressed anger bubbled beneath my ribs.

“A Mr Robert Collins lost his wife to the sepsis ten days ago, and maintains that the hospital is to blame. Miss Hooper in particular seems to have become the focus of his ire and aggression, and word has it that she is held captive in a consulting room on the top floor corridor and he is not to be reasoned with.”

Holding tightly onto the strap as the cab whips us around the darkened, narrow streets, I determine that a weighty truncheon and a stout pair of handcuffs might offer some reasoning power for Mr Collins when I got near.

“Should anything happen to Miss Hooper, I cannot say what may emerge in lieu of justice,” I mutter, grimly. “The kind of men that trouble innocent young ladies shall not receive much in the way of mercy from me, Doctor Watson.”

I feel his glance find me in the darkness of the cab, but my own eyes only gaze forward as I mentally urge the horses onward.

We rendezvous with Sherlock Holmes at the foot of the stairwell leading up to the second floor. The building has been evacuated by quick thinking staff, and my own men are about to take the route upwards when he stops them. Although the run from the cab was short, Holmes appears to be breathing hard, his face pale and strained in the lamp light. His tone is calm and solemn, but its firmness brooks no refusal or argument.

“Lestrade, I know this building and its layout. I shall take the attic stairs with you whilst Watson and your men take watch on the top corridor; Watson has my signal. I know there is a large cupboard adjoining the room where Miss Hooper is held which has a loft opening into the attic. We shall enter this way and I shall have my turn with Mr Collins –”

“Holmes, you must allow the police to –”

“No.” His voice is still, like the calm before thunder rumbles and cracks across the sky, so I listen and nod as he moves silently upwards, and I barely catch his second word:

“ _Hurry_ ,” he breathes.

**~x~**

Crammed into an earthy and dusty cupboard, Sherlock Holmes and I are barefoot, coatless and barely able to draw breath in the tight, inky blackness. Mercifully, an ill-fitting door allows a god-awful viewpoint, but a viewpoint all the same, and my heart pounds savagely in my chest as I see Molly Hooper perched upon a stool whilst a dishevelled and most disturbed fellow paces about her. I can see enough to know his hair is wild,  eyes crazed, and  manner most agitated, and that his left hand holds a six inch blade which catches the light with a heart-stopping regularity.

I am pushed up tight against Holmes and I know he sees what I do, and I wonder if he too is ill, so much does he tremble and catch his breath. His voice comes low and faint through the stifling atmosphere:

“When you hear the knock on the other door, count to three, then open this one as wide as you may.”

And I nod, my trust in him burning bright through the darkness.

 **~x~**  

Seems you can tell a man is blind in his left eye by the way he shaves his face and fastens his coat, and also by the way he holds his murderous looking knife. A man blind in one eye, see, has only _monocular_ vision and is unable to judge a distance, or note when a fellow is disarming him on his blind side. A grieving man with a brain fever brought on by the loss of his beloved wife might tremble and allow himself to be disarmed so very easily. No man can be taken to task and brought to bear when he is sobbing like an infant on the ground, as the woman he took to harm moves to take his shoulder and offer him comfort.

See, I am a policeman, and one with a good heart I do reckon, but no scientist, and certainly no great thinker. Seems a man must be more than blind when he sees Sherlock Holmes take firm hold of Molly Hooper`s hand ( _wrenching it away from Collins_ ) without seeing the truth; to witness the fury across both their faces as he holds fast her wrist ( _trembling hard in one suspenseful moment)_ and still not _realise_. Can a man _(particularly a police detective)_ really be so blind until the very second that Holmes leaves go of that wrist and takes his long, pale hands to her small shoulders, tilting his dark head to look into her eyes?

“You must not,” he sighs, in a tone I have never before heard in all the years we have worked side by side.

“Molly, you must _not_. I could not bear it.”

And I find I have to look away, since sometimes, and on some days, it is better to be blind.

**~x~**

 

 ** Two days hence,   ** ** Great Scotland Yard **

“ – thus, you do see, Lestrade, that these talismans were not, as I first thought, a warning, but a protection? This symbol,” he points, gesturing to a scribble resembling a fishhook, “ _Akoku Nan_ , offers protection to those who believe, who know what is to be done with the contents of the rat`s belly.”

“And what _is_ to be done with the contents?” I have long since given up hope of matching his high mood this day, since I have not slept since Thursday and am gripped by a melancholy that is taking its toll upon me.

“One should burn the poppy heads, bury the fingers beneath a mango tree on the evening of a new tide, and wear the symbol next to one`s heart for five days and nights.”

“This is pure nonsense, Holmes.”

He swings his legs from the window ledge of my office where he has been perched, and hops down to retrieve the cane he has leaned against my desk.

“Not to the Akhan people of Ghana, nor to the slaves upon that boat who cursed its crew for the evil they bestowed upon them, including one Edward Norton, who had taken a passage for nefarious purposes of his own. And, judging by the untimely ends and disappearances of many of that crew, it seems they believed it, too. Norton tried to burn poppy heads, but they were clearly not the right ones, since he took fright and disappeared before Miss Adler took the delivery of his own giant rat of delights.” He smiles at me, devilish and entirely enjoying every aspect of this nonsense.

“You look happy,” I comment, tonelessly, watching him walk towards the door and suddenly turn, as if in acknowledgement of my misery ( _miracles do happen, don’t they?)._

“Lestrade, Watson tells me you are determined to find yourself a wife. May I suggest you make haste with such a quest? I have noticed of late your collars needing starch, your coat needing taking in, and your hat would truly benefit from  a good brushing. A man who brings such poor repast to work,”  (here he points to the contents of my wastepaper bin) “and wears a disposition of such melancholy either requires a wife, or has a wife surplus to those requirements. You, I am glad to note, are in the former category.”

When Sherlock Holmes shines his searchlight across your bows, you know you have been truly _seen_ , as many a criminal might attest. However, it was a genuine glance of comradeship and empathy I saw in his eyes that day, and I am not ashamed to say I felt my own sense of camaraderie prickle, just a little.

“Not such an easy task, Mr Holmes, to find a lifelong companion, the person who is absolutely right for you.”

“Perhaps.”

“Perhaps?”

Already, I can see his face has lost some of that sharpness he carries with him on the battlefield that is the London streets, and I now know why, and I cannot begrudge him.

“Perhaps,” continues Sherlock Holmes, “on occasion, it is the easiest task in the world. The glove fitting the right hand, the shoe on the right foot, the key in the right lock.”

Then, the wistfulness is gone and only the detective remains, turning on his heel and striding out into the cool morning air, raising his cane in farewell as he goes.

**~x~**

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> According to the fascinating Victorian language of flowers, the celandine represents `future love' - oh, Sherlock... x


	5. Stage Two (Act II): Eros

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In seduction, it may be seen that those who live by the sword may also die by the sword.

** Five days later **

** The British Library,  ** ** The Socrates Chess Room **

Sherlock Holmes is less than pleased.

His client is proving herself to be less punctual than previous experience had promised, and he has several more errands to execute this day. In addition to this particular pique, he finds himself in _this_ venue (of her choosing) which holds a less than idyllic host of childhood memories, most of which involved his brother and a litany of repeated and almost masochistic forays in attempting to best him. In truth, Holmes quite detested chess. Admittedly, there were a thousand, thousand variations and fascinating stratagems which could have heralded a lifelong love of such a game, had it not been for Mycroft`s appalling assuredness that his younger brother would never excel.

_“Your brain is quick and your logic impressive Sherlock, but you shall never acquire the patience and regimen needed to aspire to greatness. You shall be adequate at most, purely due to your race to the finish.”_

Words, perhaps, a trifle harsh for a seven year old to hear.

So, Sherlock Holmes had decided if he was not to play to win, he would not play at all, and after the seventeenth humiliating defeat at the hands of his brother, he never lifted another piece, and indeed could barely force himself to observe  the machinations of others as they ruminated their next move. He could almost always see their next _seven_ moves, but determined he would have much preferred to watch the slow crawl of moss grow up the window pane, or an algae spread across a lake.

Watson had laughed outrageously and dubbed him ` _dramatic_ ` when he learnt of such prejudices, but it remained truth that he had never played since the age of seven and-

“Mr Holmes, I am _desolate_ at my tardiness. I do hope you have been amusing yourself amongst the merry chessmen of the Socrates room, although the aching slowness of their moves must irritate you enormously.”

He glances sharply at Irene Adler, noting in an instant that she has been delayed by prior appointment with a man, shorter than himself, but dark haired, well-attired and possessing a… love of apples?

Standing hurriedly, he inclines his head in greeting, only to be met by a raised gloved hand, which he grasps in confusion, and finds himself looking down at its pristine kid leather.

“Mr Holmes, I am disappointed- I imagined us to be… _associates_ these days.”

And he blinks, just once, and brushes his mouth briefly across her proffered hand.

“There now,” she purrs. “Was that really so abhorrent?” A sharp, feline, closed lipped smile.

“I don't bite.” 

 **~x~**  

Tension, insinuation, anticipation.

A man shall never match a woman's social intelligence- however cerebral that man may be, she shall always best him.

He may have knowledge; logic and deductive abilities which lead from A to B and all the way to a summation of C, but a woman has awareness and insight that a man does not; a knowledge of that which is not immediately apparent and is not logical in any way, shape or form.

“Do you play?”

We sit adjacent to a large and beautiful board of ebony and onyx which is at least two hundred years old and glints invitingly beneath the flickering gas. I imagine those long, pale fingers holding a weighted piece, cupping it, agitating it, caressing it whilst deliberating.

“No.”

I smile at his stiff, English propriety. Sherlock Holmes, aloof, superior, _misogynist_? I do not think so. Leaning towards him, my skirts rustle, a silken whisper as I utter words as thin as gossamer.

_“Yes, you do.”_

I know he has news of Edward. It has not been intimated by spoken nor  written word, but by his entire demeanour and impatience to be _on his way_ \- a job completed, a task achieved. But not yet, _not yet_. I am not done with you yet, sir.

I reach across and let my gloved index finger touch the black pawn; lightly, gently. I move it and then I look at him, allowing his eyes to follow my hand and its open invitation. All around us, aged gentlemen sit and cogitate from their armchairs and their armagnac, aromatic wisps of cigar smoke drifting upwards, wraith-like and sinuous and we are caught as a bubble in an opium pipe; waiting, suspended. And then, just as I suspect I may have lost him, he lifts his eyes to mine and I see acquiescence in their mercurial depths as he lifts the white pawn to oppose the black.

“Yes, I do.” He replies, voice toneless and empty.

I nod, glancing at the board once more and allowing my fingers to play a little at my throat, since I wish his eyes to see the neck the Covent Garden critic dubbed ` _swan-like and eloquent_.` I adjust my gloves, presenting pale, slender wrists before tapping a gloved finger upon the table and then the board, and finally, my lips, pretending the deliberation of my first move. His expression is still impenetrable, but I fancy his eyes flash briefly with a hot, blue fire as his gaze meets my own.

I shift the black Knight a few spaces and see his hand hesitate over the King, then the Castle. I tilt my head, thinking his thoughts, knowing the King to be the most important yet also the most impotent piece, an empty crown across the board. Black, white and back to black; the coarse and damaged and the untouchable purity, side by side.  The lamp above his chair flickers, offering a warm glow across his beautifully planed face, illumined in light and shadow as he casts his eyes obliquely. Though I should never tire of touching that face, I know the woman who shall caress it will not be me.

“I met your little red-haired nurse upon the stair the other day, she seemed quite charming.”

Immediately his eyes are torn from the board and his bloodless glance transforms into an eloquent cocktail of wariness and antipathy, which I absolutely cherish.

“It is admirable to find a young woman so unconsumed by vanity and the fripperies we are too often absorbed by.”

He has relinquished all interest in the board, which I do regret, but I am unable to stop now.

“An orphan, I believe? Penniless, and bravely trying to forge her way into a man`s world of sawn bones and noxious disease. Heroic and - ”

“You must _stop_ speaking of her immediately.”

His voice slices so swiftly and sharply across my own that I barely feel the sting, but it is there. He is angry. Beneath the gloss of his immaculate morning coat and golden watch fob, Sherlock Holmes is _furious,_ and I smile, just a little.

“Come now, Mr Holmes,” I continue quietly (although a storm of firecrackers would fail to rouse this room from its singular, self-imposed isolation), “you must allow for my surprise. I was of the expectation that you were a man who placed himself above such matters of sentiment and predictability. Such tenderness must place grit upon the lens of the reasoning you hold so dear -  it seems less than possible.”

As much as I have chosen to affect an appearance of aloof indifference, I am appalled to find myself giving a far too impassioned appeal, and I can no longer keep his vehement gaze.

“It is more than possible,” he returns, his face a mask of stone, “it is _probable._ ”

A slight and utterly unpredicted panic rises in my throat as I see him look about to gather his stick and gloves, reaching for them beside the abandoned chessboard. I stand and it is all I can do not to grab his sleeve to halt this process, but I know that the game is over.

“I went too far,” I offer, losing all artifice, all grandeur and pride. “I imagined we were only making a little sport with one another.”

And he stops, eyes no longer crackling and brow untroubled. He stands above me, hand upon his cane.

“My evidence gathered at the scene has ensured the _SS Appledore_ be interred by the Harbour Master until further notice, since its scandalous useage has been deemed irrefutable. The owner of the ship has not come forward and cannot be traced and suffice to say, whether guilty or innocent, he shall be doing all he can to distance himself from such an ugly discovery.

“Your husband used the ship as a vessel for smuggling and other deplorable purposes which saw him tainted by a very vengeful curse, bestowed on him by some of the slaves aboard the ship. Whether or not your beliefs, Ms Adler, tend toward the supernatural, it is clear that your husband set great store by such a threat and could only be brought out of hiding by my offer to meet with him and hand over the stomach contents of the giant rat of Sumatra. He could then perform the bizarre rituals required to cleanse him of such ` _country fetishes_ `(as the captain's diary dubbed them) and the curse would be lifted. Upon meeting with Mr Norton, my original plan was to apprehend him and bring him into custody, allowing a trial and inevitable divorce proceedings to take place.”

“ _Original_?”

He adjusts his ramrod straight stance, once more glancing across at the chess game, abandoned only eleven moves in.

“I now plan to have the artefacts delivered to Mr Norton, allowing him to perform his ritual, become `free’ of the curse, and retain his liberty. My newly _enlightened_ status has clearly inspired me to show mercy upon the weak-willed and ridiculous, and allow them the chance to flee and begin a new life elsewhere.”

My heart beats out of kilter, but I know I allow no weakness to show, since the time for sympathy has passed. It will now be years before I am granted a divorce; I shall never be  free,  unencumbered by my tiresome husband. My eyelids flutter, despite my resolve, and I find I am a little faint. I am acquainted with the owner of that ship, and I know how less than pleased he shall be to discover his loss.

“It was merely a little acting, a taunt for amusement- _the playing of a game!_ ”

With one sweeping, devastating move, Sherlock Holmes slides his knight between the King and my knight, relinquishing the piece the next instant as if it were molten lead.

“I know,” he whispers, leaning in close to my ear, “and this is just losing. _Check-mate_ , and a good day to you, Ms Adler.”

In a flash of tailcoat and desolation, he is gone, and I watch the heavy door swing shut behind him.

**~x~**

 


	6. Sign Four: Agape (Act I)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The kind of unconditional love where sacrifices are made without question, is a rare commodity and therefore holds the honour of being love in its highest form.

**“All my heart is yours, sir; it belongs to you, and with you it would remain were fate to exile the rest of me from your presence forever.”** **_Charlotte Bronte-_ ** **_(Jane Eyre)_ **

**“I love you against reason, against promise, against peace, against hope, against happiness, against all discouragement that could be.”** **_Charles Dickens-_ ** **_(Great Expectations)_ **

**“We were together.** **I forget the rest.”-** **_Walt Whitman_ **

 

* * *

**~x~**

** Several weeks later,  ** ** St. Bart`s Mortuary **

** A ridiculously late hour **

Why am I always alone when opening one of _the notes_?

And why is it always dark, gloomy, and generally in the presence of the sick, dying or deceased?

Perhaps fate is questioning the hours I keep, or the career I am undertaking? Regardless, it is always the witching hour that sees me sat atop a cedar wood laboratory stool, adjacent to a dripping tap and a layered pile of translucent foolscap populated by my scrawl, when I take time to address my correspondence and discover I am not so anonymous in this great city as I had first perceived.

I recognise the hand (of course I do) and the finely milled paper, expensively weighted envelope and slight taint of blossom across the gum (witness the quick study I have become- truly, I have the most effective teacher). It seems pointless to delay, since from experience I know the hours of feigned indifference and stomach-churning denial always end the same way- my opening of the letter, and a fresh onslaught of insidious fear.

_`You ensure his weakness, his vulnerability._

_You place him in the line of fire._

_You cloud his judgement and dilute his efficacy._

_Is this your intention? Is this your desire?_

_You may not be secret with me;_

_I own secrecy.`_

A single magpie is stamped, in brazen lieu of a signature, and it is all I can do to settle the trepidation I feel rising in my throat as my eyes afford the recognition.

 _One for sorrow,_ _Two for joy,_ _Three for a girl,_ _And four for a boy._ _Five for silver,_ _Six for gold,_ _And seven for a secret, neve_ _r to be told._

 

Who should know, and who should care?

The redamancy of Sherlock Holmes and myself is ours alone- to own, to cherish, to ruin or to refute. I had never, in my wildest imaginings, conjured a being, a man, such as he. My father was a fine and wise man, a model upon whom I could devise the sons yet to be born as well as the man I would meet and take as a husband. I imagined a strong, solid and reliable man; honest and accommodating, genial and well-versed in the unpredictable ways of the world and well-equipped to deal with the vagaries life may attach to a new, young family in this ever changing age.

I accounted for this expectation (the ordinary), therefore the _extra-ordinary_ did not enter my consciousness, for what did I know of the breath-taking, life-changing, all-encompassing conflagration that is the true aeipathy of love? I cared, I lost, I lived, and I believed in all that came with that burden we call humanity and all of its penalties. 

In truth, I have had friendships, I have cherished familial bonds, I have adored those who raised me, who taught me, and who believed in me, yet I was still a dusty moth crashing into a flickering bulb before I met and loved Sherlock Holmes. It was as if that moth had seen the sun rise above that flickering bulb, and known that all else was a shadowy facsimile- a pastiche, a shameful game of shadow puppetry which masked the reality beyond that calico theatre.

They say you know, in an instant, when you have met the person who shall own your heart. The Japanese have named it _Koi No Yokan,_ and I must attest that it is a very real and irrefutable notion which I can scarcely believe has happened to me- and yet, here I am.

He is singular, beautiful, and one of the rarest of creatures upon this overcrowded rock we all jostle for supremacy upon, because he is _himself_. I adore how he thinks, how he deliberates a problem for hours and allows life to go on around him with utter indifference. I relish the eloquence of one finger as it touches his upper lip as a solution is emerging; the glint in the eye and the bubbling energy that floods through that touch, suffusing light, life and reaction - turning on a tap and unleashing an effervescent chain of thought that throws open doors, engulfing secrets, lies and terrible deeds with truth and remedy. I love his single-minded, appallingly selfish obsessive actions and demeanor, since I know whereto they lead and why he allows his brain to shut out all else until an exposition emerges.

In all honesty, I also delight in the way his translucent eyes sweep across _my_ universe each time we meet and invite me into his own; to share, to learn, to interact with the magical and the new. The face in the broadsheet, the mask for the public domain is someone I barely remember when we two are alone together. His long-standing love affair with logic and infamous abhorrence of ` _sentiment_ ` serves to both bemuse and amuse me.

_“How do you enchant me so, Molly Hooper?” A finger traces the curve of my cheekbone and I smile, because I know something the Great Sherlock Holmes does not._

_“Because, Sherlock. Simply because.”_

Since he appears accepting of such an illogical and flimsy premise, it tells me all I need to know.

All of which is why it shall be so very dreadful and so very terrible to leave him.

 **~x~**  

 ** Seven days later,  ** ** Simpsons Restaurant, ** ** The Strand **

“Mary.”

“John.”

I am genuinely delighted to see her. It might be rather fanciful to point out, but her speedwell eyes truly do sparkle in the low lamp light of my favourite restaurant. The linen is dazzlingly white, the silverware gleams, pristine and opalescent, the delicate pale pink petals of the flowers between us reflect the faint blush in her complexion, and the overall effect is delightful.

It is perfect, in fact.

As Mary Morstan is assisted to her seat by no less than the Maitre d` himself, I feel a weight almost lift from my shoulders, as if recent cares and conundrums have fallen away, light as spring blossoms in this April evening.

“Apologies - “

“No matter. Your lateness, Mary, is your greatness.”

She sits, adjusts her napkin and quirks a smile at me, all in one efficient movement.

“I beg your pardon?”

“That is to say - “ I backtrack slightly beneath her decisive gaze. “I appreciated a moment to… _acclimatise_.”

We both take a moment to view our rather splendid surroundings, inclusive of a French chandelier and an accomplished pianist.

“John-” her gloved hand reaches across the table, encompassing my own before I have chance to acknowledge it.

“So did I.”

 **~x~**  

Sherlock Holmes and myself have been regulars here over the years.  A  snatched supper of cold cuts after the culmination of a case; a warming glass of port or brandy once a chase has ended, landing one or the other of us in a state of distress or disarray. The staff know and are always welcoming of us, and when I requested a private corner for my proposal of marriage to Miss Mary Morstan, they were most accommodating ( _and far too discreet to affect surprise)_.

“John, this is lovely.”

“Oh, goodness, I am so sorry-”

My nerves had clearly got the better of me as I knock the water carafe whilst checking my waistcoat pocket for approximately the fiftieth time.

“A little water spilt does not an evening ruin. My gown has seen worse, I must admit. This, though-"

I glance around and am generally rather pleased, especially since the violinist is near our table and playing a short nocturne I vaguely recognise.

In truth, I am transported to a moment several months past, when Holmes and I had returned from a rather unusual case in Sussex, where bloodletting and supernatural allusions had left us both a little insomniatic and restless. He had waived away my offer of a sleeping draught, striding through our small apartment, dressing gown flailing and bare of foot.

“Chemicals are the devil's work, Watson! I will have none of them.”

As much as I could have remarked upon the irony of such a statement, I respected the lateness of the hour and kept my counsel to myself, only to exclaim when he emerged from his room, carrying aloft his violin.

“Holmes, it is three o'clock in the morning! This is surely not the time for a recital.”

“One must listen, my dear fellow, and allow the music to envelop one's sensibilities.”

“I really do not imagine-”

But, as he held aloft his bow, I acquiesced to listen, and as the notes emerged and floated across my exhausted mind, I was immediately calmed and soothed. I stretched in my armchair, violin leaching the tension of the past few days from my tired limbs, and glanced across at my friend, wondering if this was a purely selfless act, designed to quieten me at his own expense. Gladly, I regarded his focused and thoughtful countenance, and I knew he was equally as distracted as I was- he could have been anywhere- the violin and he were symbiotic and could not have been regarded as separate entities.

“John, you are quite a study. You seemed transported.”

Mary’s voice retrieves me from my reminiscences, the crystals embellishing her gown throwing tiny reflections across her face and neck and bringing me into the present.

“Mary, I do apologise, I am a little overwhelmed, what with the music, the setting, the occasion, yourself…” I colour slightly, as I am truthfully no skilled wordsmith. I decide upon a course of action, since I have already allowed matters to run amok with me.

“Mary, I should like to ask - “

“ _Yes._ ”

“-you to-”

“I said, `yes`. It is more than likely, John, that I shall not be changing my mind.”

“-marry- oh… oh, that is _most_ … that is to say, it is _entirely_ …”

As she squeezes my limp hand which lies redundant across the pristine cloth, I decide upon two courses of subsequent action; I would order a bottle of champagne and then determine to stay far from Baker Street until I have worded my happy news into something palatable for my flatmate.

Mary Morstan twines my fingers within her own, preventing recourse to even the first item upon my agenda, and fixes me with her bright eyes.

“Sherlock Holmes shall be pleased for you, John.”

She is astonishing; am I so very readable?

“Indeed. Of course. He shall be enchanted with my choice, how could he not be?” I pause, searching. This was proving to be a little less than romantic, but it was unlikely she would understand- how could she?

The violinist, as if sensing some sign of climactic decision-making, sashays nearer, his familiar notes tumbling about me in the most potent and enveloping crescendo. I grasp the tethering hand of Mary Morstan and am glad of her place at my table, by my side, and in my heart.

“I should be so glad to tell him of our wonderful news, were he not entirely bereft himself.”

Her hand tightens and her eyes glisten with an inherent understanding.

“Oh, John. Not Molly - ?”

I shake my head, as if willing away the truth of the matter.

“She is gone, and I fear he will never be quite the same again.”

**~x~**

Four days ago, I had returned from a trip to the Old Vic with Mary to listen to some dreadfully dull musical recital. I had imagined she was entranced by its sonorous selection of dirges and po-faced interpretations, and so was reluctant to divulge an opinion as we virtually galloped down the theatre steps towards a cab.

“You seem in some hurry, John,” she grasped my arm, smiling as we went. “Are you distancing yourself as far as possible from the string quartet that would disgrace an internment with their misery?”

I halted then, right there on the step, and turned to her.

“You hated it.”

“As did you.”

A pause.

“Thank the Lord for that!”

And we dissolved into improper and robust laughter on the busy steps, most probably appalling musical _aficionados_ on all sides as the theatre emptied itself.

“I do love you,” I declared, brazen with euphoria.

“And I thank the Lord for _that_ ,” commented she, resting her head upon my shoulder as we descended the remainder of steps together.

A good half hour later, I had bid Mary Morstan a fond farewell at her door and, still most light of heart, found myself bounding up the stairs of 221B to share the appalling nature of the programme with my friend. It had long since been a hobby of his to catalogue poor arrangements and weak performers, since he was researching such information for a monograph on finger length in string players. I, therefore,  retained an anticipatory grin across my countenance as I heard a shuffle at the newel post behind me and a very restrained calling of my name.

“Doctor Watson, a word, if you please, sir.”

Mrs Hudson rarely invited her tenants into the inner sanctum of her own downstairs flat, and therefore I was slightly trepidatious as the door shut behind me and she bade me sit.

“Doctor,” she began, before I had even sat down, as if the words could not tumble out quickly enough. “I am very worried for Mr Holmes.”

Callous as it may seem, I was not initially overly concerned for the well-being of my friend, since his behaviours often induced worry in the most stalwart of his friends and associates. When one of your tenants decorates your wall with bullet holes, leaves dissected swamp adders on your best parlour crockery, and mixes noxiously-fragranced compounds with your silverware, it is perfectly acceptable to express your concerns (perhaps with irritation) for his safety. However, I noted her face was distressingly careworn, with deep circles etched beneath her eyes and her pinny stained at the hem (a most unusual event for a lady with such exacting standards of hygiene and housekeeping). Thus, I arranged my features more appropriately and accepted the tea she pressed upon me, giving benefit of (what Mary might call) my _`_ best consulting face _`_.

“A note was delivered this morning sir, just after you left for the surgery, and Billy assures me it was written in Miss Hooper`s own hand.”

This was far from unusual, since I was well aware that many notes (often five or six each day) passed between Miss Hooper and Mr Holmes, rarely containing any specific information, but often causing a discreet and secret smile to steal across his face as he read the received epistles. Mary (who had recently made the much anticipated acquaintance of my friend) deemed it `charming`, but knew better than to draw attention to it.

“I like him,” she intoned, later, “and I wish to ensure he continues to like _me_.”

It appeared, however, that this note from Miss Hooper was not of the _secret smile_ variety.

“Since it arrived, I have been unable rouse him. He has taken neither morning coffee, lunch, or afternoon tea. I knew you were at the theatre with Miss Morstan, Doctor, so I even made him his favourite pudding, in the hope he would eat, but no such luck.”

Again, this was not unheard of. Holmes would often work for days at a time, subsisting on little more than a slice of bread and the blackest of coffees, but it appeared that work was not consuming him on this occasion.

“I have had to turn away three clients today, sir. Two of them, including Colonel Ross, had prior appointments. That man is more than agitated regarding his horse, let me tell you. Mr Holmes did not inquire as to the clients, nor did he wish to re-arrange their appointments.”

I _was_ affected now, a little more by way of the anxiety that was worming its way into my gut. Holmes was often eccentric and occasionally truculent, but he was rarely, knowingly unprofessional and was loathe to break an arrangement unless he absolutely had to.

“Did Mr Holmes send a reply to Miss Hooper, do you know?” I did not wish to be reduced to tittle tattle, but it was clear that something was amiss.

“That was the most upsetting part,” she twisted her sullied apron between her reddened fingers, pleating and worrying the fabric. “He replied _four times_ , with never a response forthcoming from the lady. The boy, Wiggins, was severely reprimanded for allowing correspondence to be lost, but the lad swears he delivered it directly into her hand. In the end- just before you returned, Doctor- Mr Holmes stopped him before he set off with  the last note, ripping it and burning it, Wiggins said, like it had offended him. ` _Enough_ ,’ he said to the lad, ` _the lady deserves no more of this_ ,’ and that was that.”

“Oh, dear me.”

“And then, all I have heard is that violin, playing the same tune over and over; it’s one I don't recognise, sir, even though I`ve heard Mr Holmes play many times. This one is very melancholy.”

Her eyes are sadness itself as she turns them up towards me, and I am better to understand the affection she holds for him.

“He is far from equipped, I fear, to cope with such matters. I was counting the minutes until you returned, Doctor; I know you are a little better versed in problems of the heart.”

I did detect Holmes`s influence in our landlady`s opinion of me, but I was more determined than ever to be of assistance as I attempted the stairs for a second time.

 **~x~**  

_She did not request it, she never asked._

_You must understand this._

_One day, a person you are acquainted with shall execute a movement, a brief smile, a slow closing of the eyes, a featherlight touch upon a person's wrist, and then, God help you, your life is no longer your own. You are held, a willing and ridiculous hostage of your hidden desires and yearnings. You are consumed, from the inside out, and that initial, tiny flicker that shocked your heart into life becomes a bright, hungry, devouring burst of flame, and it will burn you, it will burn the very heart out of you, and you will become a pathetic spectre of your former self._

_I detest love._

**~x~**  

I expect to see a stormswept wreck of a sitting room in 221B, but I am slightly shocked to encounter an unusually tidy arrangement, unsullied by noxious fumes or billowing piles of paper and detritus. A small fire flickers bravely in the grate and the gas mantle has been lit, hinting strongly that my friend has lost neither his faculties nor his sensibilities towards the chilly evening.

He sits sprawled across my armchair, wrapped in his blue dressing gown and resting his Stradivarius across his knee in a manner a little ill-suited to a 1709 _Cremona_ edition, but I keep my counsel and take refuge in his chair, nodding towards the tantalus upon the sideboard.

“No thank you. I am fine, Watson, please desist from employing your _best consulting face_ for my benefit.”

_Mary? How on earth - ?_

“A sensible girl, Miss Morstan. You would do well to marry her."

He appears so much his normal self, I am quite inclined to attribute Mrs Hudson`s concerns as a little over protective, but I have not been a close friend of Sherlock Holmes for almost fifteen years not to have developed my own observational capabilities. The blank foolscap that lay thick across his desk the night before was quite depleted which went some way to explaining the fire burning so valiantly. His long, pale hands attempted a casual demeanour across his violin, but there was a slight tremor to be seen if one cared to look for it. His hair was less than immaculate, with no hint of dressing to tame the unruliness of the curl, and his brow had acquired a deep and unyielding crease, affecting a careworn look.

“Goodness, Watson, please share your observations with me, they seem to be nearly bursting out of you.” He turns a beleaguered eye in my direction.

“I merely note that you appear… a little lachrymose this evening.”

He sighs, staring upward towards the ceiling and running a hand through his dishevelled hair.

“Mrs Hudson has afforded you worry with her concerns, but fear not, my dear fellow, I shall soon be restored now I am unburdened with unwarranted sentiment.”

“Holmes, I - “

He turns his head, then rights himself in one, fluid movement, so he is sitting upright, giving me the benefit of his pale eyes and his full attention.

“No,” he counters, before I can proceed. “You cannot assist me, my dear Watson. Expectation is the root of all heartache, as the Bard has stated, and I am pleased to inform you that I am free of all expectation.”

He stands, stretching as though he has been confined in the smallest of spaces for the longest of times.

“I trust you did not allow the appalling _Bakerloo String Ensemble_ to ruin a perfectly lovely evening with the charming Miss Morstan. Now, do excuse me, old man, I need my own counsel tonight. Tomorrow, I feel assured that the good Colonel shall be more than pleased with my deductions regarding the wonderful _Silver Blaze_ and all will be right with the world. Good night, Watson.”

And as he takes himself to his room and the door shuts behind his back, I find myself reflecting that as an ex-army doctor who has worked through two Boer campaigns and truly seen the agony of the battlefield, rarely have I seen a man in so much pain.

“Goodnight, Holmes,” I reply, softly.

**~x~**

 

 


	7. Sign Four: Agape (Act II)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Envy is really of little value, merely the wanting of something that was never yours. How may it ever compare to grief- the loss of something miraculous that you have already experienced?

The next few months blurred by in a spinning zoetrope of mysterious deeds and criminal acts. As distressing as this must have been for the general populace, I was strangely pleased my dear friend had much to distract him. Missing husbands, extorted lovers, forged family treasures, and once, a deadly stinging jellyfish as murderer. It quite appeared as if the casebook of Sherlock Holmes had been expanded exponentially until bursting at the seams, not to mention the poor, overworked devils at Scotland Yard, who could barely keep one misdemeanour out of the papers before another reared its ugly head.

Indeed, wedding planning with Mary would often degenerate into discussion of the latest scandal, robbery, or disappearance.

“Our city has quite gone to the dogs,” she commented one evening, whilst folding napkins under our landlady's expert tutelage. “I almost fear for the young couple attempting to begin their married life in such a den of iniquity.”

Since my case notes from the last four of Holmes` cases were spread across the turkish rug beneath our feet, I could hardly be in disaccord.

“The elections next week should be more than interesting,” I murmured, contemplating the conflagration at my feet.

“Quite the poisoned chalice for the fellow elected Mayor, I would imagine,” added she.

Thus, I would oft times find myself across from client after client whose troubles had not come in single spies, but in battalions.

“‘ _Murder, murder, you cruel beast, you monster._ ’” Sherlock Holmes solemnly repeated the words, verbatim, yet devoid of even a modicum of expression.  “You are quite sure your lodger would shout these exact words regularly, Mrs Merrilow?”

“Most nights, sir, most nights. Shouting, almost screaming she is, and as if that poor, torn up face of `ers weren't enough!”

What Mrs Merrilow`s description of her tenant`s disfigurement lacked in adjectives had more than been compensated for in hyperbole and wide-eyed horror.

“I ain't ever hoping to see that again, either on earth or in the hereafter, Mr Holmes, sir.”

Holmes was leaning, arms folded, against the door jam, both listening and half-listening, as only I could recognise.

“Anything else?” he murmured, eyes unfocused into the middle distance - across the room and out of the window to goodness knows where.

“Mrs Ronder, my tenant - she knows I'm here today (she welcomed it, I must confess) and she says to tell you,” (here she removed a grubby, crumpled piece of paper, the size of a bus ticket, from her coat pocket) “` _Abbas Parva_ `. Says you`d understand.”

And, miraculously, the dulled eyes were instantly clear and focus as my friend sprung to life and into the direct eyeline of our client.

“ _Abbas Parva_! Oh excellent, Watson! Quite before your time, too. The circus lion and that terrible accident. Please, madam, continue in your most interesting narrative, and leave nothing out, nothing at all.”

Days would pass in this way.

Distrait and abstracted one moment, wildly energised and focused the next. Lengthy evenings of pacing, smoking, violin-playing, then more pacing, followed by hours and hours of sleeping, yet waking as exhausted in appearance as ever before, until the next case, and the cycle would begin again. 

“I liked him better happy,” whispered Mary one evening, as I walked her home, and I could do nothing but concur, bothered by the unshiftable weight in my heart.

**~x~**

“I rather think, Sherlock, you are _dissipating_. The Parentals should visit soon, before you evanesce entirely.”

My brother has insisted on seeing me regarding a letter discovered in a strong box, purporting to belong to Arthur Cadogan West, a clerk at the Royal Arsenal. Some nonsense involving a submersible ship of some kind. I have lately become more than a little tired of ships and, as it has become clear, of my brother.

“I have no interest in the carelessness of government officials, Mycroft, but I thank you for your concern for my health and take care on your way out as Billy has recently oiled the stoop.”

He contemplates me with an almost hesitant intent before nodding slightly and grasping at his cane to rise from Watson`s chair. The slightest whiff of embrocation and delicacy of positioning informs me of a recent knee injury, and the new key on his fob tells of him utilising the side entrance of the Diogenes club rather than risk the roadworks at the front. So simple it is to slip and fall quite heavily. One can only hope there were witnesses.

“My knee is recovering well, Sherlock, thank you for _not_ asking.”

 I return his nod. Our solicitations _(as much as these interactions are)_ being over, I step over to the door, throwing it open with a reassuring smile to send him on his way.

“Good day, Mycroft.”

It is only as he dons his top hat and adjusts his gloves at the top of the stair do I suspect he might linger. I note with growing horror that the sardonic quirk of his brow and barely repressed disdain is gone, and in its place- ?

“Sherlock-”

My heart races inexplicably and my face grows heated, my throat taught and aching… no!

“I _am_ sorry-”

_No. Do not speak her name. Do not be sorry. No, no, no!_

I look to the ground, still holding the door handle, and I wonder if I will ever take an unconscious breath again without the taste of her name upon my lips, and I breathe in once, and out once… and then once again.

When I look up, he is gone.

**~x~**

** Midnight **

** The Milverton Road, n** **umber 15 **

As I slam the door inwards with heartier vigour than the action necessitates, I realise the empty house is substantially more dilapidated than it appears from the outside. Piles of rubble, holes showing wooden slats, paper peeling and a hollow dripping emanating from the upstairs. Boarded windows have been breached in several places by migrants, whether they be miscellaneous birds, beasts or those shreds of humanity a place such as this could offer shelter to.

The chase had been lengthy and protracted, and I find myself staggering slightly, nearly felled by the sudden force of entry and abrupt cessation of my energies. I fear I have lost Watson some streets back, but am certain Jabez Wilson, arsonist and unreliable stockbroker is considerably nearer - just a floor or so upwards, in actual fact.

Recently disrupted dust lies white and obvious across earlier deposits, and I find myself following the pretty little trail left by Mr Wilson along the corridor, past what remained of the kitchen, and up the back stairs. Being mindful to step over missing stairs, I am alerted on the first landing by a creaking to the right, then as I turn on my right again, then-

_Molly Hooper`s voice, light and carefree with the promise of a smile in every syllable infiltrates my head:_

_“Two wrongs do not make a right, Sherlock, but three rights do make a left …”_

And my certainty fails me, as I momentarily waver, standing in the limbo of remembrance…

And that is when the wooden bar crashes hard across my temple, and rough hands shove me harder from behind ( _two of them? How?_ ), sending me dazed and sprawling across the filthy floor of the empty house.

**~x~**

Sawdust and bone meal, dry and stale and brought in from shoes worn at Billingsgate fish market.

I know my fingers are broken by the emergent and searing pain shooting from the second, third and fourth proximal phalanges to the carpus of my wrist in pulsing bursts, but am unable to visually assess the appalling angle of my hand as the crack to my skull has created significant disturbance to my eyesight. One must hope the blurring and obfuscation is merely a temporary (yet singularly inconvenient) setback.

As I attempt to lift my left arm in some bleary pantomime of getting to my feet, a firm hand across my shoulders pushes me back down into the sawdust, brick dust and derelict grime, and a breath-taking pain radiates through my chest in a vicious slice, almost forcing me to lose my tenuous grip on consciousness. Voices seem muffled, far away, subterranean; I am both in and outside of my own head simultaneously.

I swim nearer the surface.

“ …awake. I do not quite wish to end him.”

A loquacious voice- sing song and occasionally pitched beyond my current auditory abilities. A leather glove touches my cheek; the hide is new and tainted with another agent (polish? wax? varnish?) and I wonder how such a gentle touch could so juxtapose my current predicament.

“Mr Holmes.”

My name swims up and finds me, and I flinch, as breathing saws my ribs in two.

“You must always _feel_ the pain,” comes the lilting words, washing down, down…

“but you don't have to _fear_ it.”

I try so hard to focus, but I only see dark and light in the gloom of the landing; dark hair, white skin, and that leather fingertip, tracing my lower then upper lip as I try again to identify that scent…

“I am sorry, Mr Holmes, but I don`t make the rules… what _am_ I about? Of course I make the rules! And break them. It appears I may have broken _you_ , Sherlock. Alas, that is _such_ a pity, but it is much like the children at play- you take my best boat and I take your favourite doll - _and I did, you know_.”

I am moving my mouth, but it appears unusually unco-operative.

“Goodness, no. It's _my_ turn now, Sherlock. Things shall be _different_ now. You`ve been rushing around, making all sorts of messes for me to clear up, and I`m a little tired of it. I`ve been around for _a-a-ages_ , you see, doing as I do; my works of art if you prefer  -  my _projects._ Only, you didn't know, did you? Oh, you must not be contrite, _no-one_ knows, since I am quite the specialist you see. The frailty of genius though, my dear, is that it needs an audience, and that is why everything is changing. You're beginning to see it already, aren't you, Sherlock? You`ve _noticed_ \- clever boy!”

I almost lose consciousness again as they lift me to a sitting position, so agonising is it, but the leather glove finds my face again and holds it (gently) until there is an infinitesimal ebbing of the pain.

“Sorry for this - _indignity_ , Sherlock Holmes, but after all the trouble you have caused me, I did owe you a fall, did I not?”

As he leaves go, I find myself slumping heavily against the crumbling plasterwork and a trace of him is left behind in the air. I hear steps (three sets of feet, two heavy set men, one slighter. One with flat feet and one with an untreated clubfoot) and attempt to take in air, in short, stabbing breaths.

“I - I - “

 I hear the footsteps halt as my poor attempts at orthoepy filter through the night.

“I _shall_ find you.” _(the merest, gasping whisper)_

A minute’s cessation, then a sing-song riposte:

“No, you shall _not_.”

I close my eyes and I have it.

_Apple blossom._

**~x~**

 

 ** Two weeks later,  ** ** Baker Street **

** Dr John H Watson takes a libation. **

My mother would never consider residing in the same premises as a man who was the worse for drink. If a fellow could not contain his liquor, she would leave the establishment immediately, regardless of the placatory words of her hostess, or other members of the party. My own sister`s devastating descent, therefore, came as a terrible affliction upon the family; a drunken man was intolerable, whilst a drunken woman was almost inconceivable, and thus poor Harriet was spoken of in the hushed tones my mother employed for her most unpalatable topics _(an extremely long list)._

I therefore considered her opinion of her only son upon the night preceding his long awaited nuptials to Miss Mary Morstan, when it appeared that he was a little more inebriated than was usual. I considered it, and I dismissed it.

Mr Michael Stamford, a respected and genial colleague from my days at Bart's had insisted I required ` _a few medicinal libations_ ` prior to entering into the state of holy matrimony, and persuaded Lestrade and his new assistant, Donovan, as well as a few other medical types, to occupy a table at Simpsons for some fine cold cuts and one or two glasses of champagne.

Mr Sherlock Holmes was, sadly, unable to join us. Since the attempt upon his life, he had been recuperating slowly, unable to write, eat very much, or even shift across the sofa without atrocious and debilitating pain. I had originally begged him to be my best man, since there was no-one I would rather have beside me on such a day, thus, doctors from all quarters ( _and even his capricious brother)_ had advised Holmes to conserve his energies so that he could fulfil his duties on the day of the wedding.  Consequently, as I shuffled off my greatcoat and _(eventually)_ stowed my stick in the hall, I decided I would chance a word or two with my dear friend and flatmate, since our final night under the same roof was abruptly upon us.  It was becoming increasingly obvious that, unbeknownst to myself, Mrs Hudson had recently oiled the bannister up to 221B, since I found I was strangely unable to form too strong a purchase upon its familiar oaken surface. Eventually, I tumbled, replete and happy, into our snug chamber, which had now seemingly evolved into a sylvan bower of fragrant flowers.

Everywhere there were sprigs of tree blossom, their scent distilling wonderfully into the evening air and permeating every musty corner, extolling a freshness there never before witnessed. In the midst of such a fragrantly efflorescent diorama, wrapped in scarlet dressing gown and wielding both pipette and microscope slide, sat Sherlock Holmes, his dishevelled hair and sea-green eyes giving him the air of an overgrown Puck, distilling potions for his mistress.

“Holmes, this is indeed wondrous, but we do have a florist for tomorrow; Mary favours tea roses, if you are interested.”

I slump rather heavily into the nearest armchair and decide I shall pluck the nearest branch from its receptacle and inhale its pungent scent.

His eyes roll over me, assessing and assimilating, deducing and deciding. He lowers the pipette and slide, raises himself (gingerly) to his feet and moves towards the tantalus where two glasses of whisky are already poured.

“Probably not be needing that,” I murmur, enjoying the sight of my friend, the scent of the room, the promise of the morrow. 

“Perhaps, but I most certainly shall,” remarks he, holding his ribs assiduously as he retrieves the glasses.

“Congratulation, Watson, on your soon to be perfect state. You have chosen well and I am exceptionally happy for you both.”

We raise our crystal, we drink, and we smile.

As I lower my glass, I am assaulted by a sudden and unexpected melancholy, which affords me a moment to set it down and lean forward, into the close proximity of my friend. I glance hazily into his familiar features and I am astounded to feel tears pricking my eyes.

“A toast,” I manage. “To changing times, and to familiar times.”

“Plus les choses changent, plus elles restent les mêmes,” replies Sherlock Holmes, and he clinks my glass and smiles a genuine smile amongst the blossoms. I am a little drunk, but I genuinely feel as though my heart may be breaking for him at that moment.

“Your evening was- pleasant?” His eyes search mine, which perhaps is less than useful just then.

I can do nought but stare into his bright, searching gaze.

“Sergeant Donovan does not appear to like you.”

At this he smiles.

“Obviously.”

“Lestrade is engaged.” I add, randomly.

“Commendable.”

“Yes.”

We drink a little more, and I do not reprimand his refilling of our glasses.

“The flowers? I must ask, but I fully expect receipt of an indefatigable answer.”

Holmes tilts his head and swirls the amber liquid slowly around his glass, as if testing further distillations.

"A little research into blossom. Varieties of apple can vary greatly from place to place, as can their scents."

"Excellent. Good work. Keep it up, old man." My eyes feels slightly heavy as I lean into my own hand.

From the corner of my eye, I am suddenly aware of his close scrutiny once more, and he hesitates slightly before speaking, as if weighing up an opening gambit.

“I recently encountered a man whom I have never met, but known for a long time. Does this make a modicum of sense, Watson?”

“Always.”

“He has invited me into a world I knew I was destined for, yet had no interest inhabiting.”

“Wonderful.”

“I know. It is a little like Christmas.”

We both laugh long and hard about this, but we both know bravado when we see it.

“I know who he is, Watson.”

“Naturally.”

There is a pause where we both drink, and I am of the opinion that it is now, or never.

“I shall miss you, Watson,” he says, splaying long legs and crimson silk across his chair.

I take a second to contemplate before replying, then say:

“Last week, against all your wishes, I made a decision…”

He rears up, shaking his head, but I press on.

“I went to see Molly Hooper.”

And at that, he must listen.

 **~x~**  

In truth, the time at my practise should have resulted in all too frequent chances to encounter the lady in question had her medical studies not evolved and resulted in her spending more and more time at Bart's, away from the Marylebone Dispensary, and away from myself. I was partially grateful for this, since Holmes had ordered me to “ _leave well alone_ ” and I had chosen to honour the wishes of a man who now seemed so much _less_ than his former self. At this juncture, I had been furnished with no other information regarding causation of Miss Hooper's decision, but would do all I could to support my friend. All the same, I did miss our regular pre-surgery chats, and the disappearance of her smile and sweet disposition left a significant hole in my own world.

As the weeks progressed, I found myself tempted to enter the mortuary entrance at Bart's on more than one occasion, but loyalty and a sense of respect for my friend had always held me back.

Until someone decided to hurt him.

It was almost a week after the attack on Holmes at Milverton Street, and several days since the election of the new lord mayor of London. Flags and bunting still fluttered in the breeze from the campaign victory as I walked along Giltspur Street, noting the large stone edifice of the hospital rising up above me and contemplating my internal squabble as to whether this was the time I truly should visit. She should surely wish to know of his condition? Her feelings for him, whether now extinguished or not, had been real and (as far as I was able to note) strong. How can a person snuff out their affection for another in a single act? Certainly, a protracted and gradual decline was more the usual. However, if their parting had been truly acrimonious, would Holmes welcome her pity, since her true feelings must have been ones of indifference? It was an impossible decision to make, and I found myself vacillating upon the pavement outside the church of _St. Sepulchre-Without-Newgate_ as a person scampered down the steps directly in front of me, narrowly avoiding a collision.

“Goodness,” remarked Miss Molly Hooper, gathering herself and her coat around her.

“Does the Lord not always work in mysterious ways?”

**~x~**

We take an awkward cup of tea in a small cafe on the corner of Giltspur Street and it soon appears that Miss Molly Hooper is not at all surprised to learn of Holmes`s ambush and subsequent ill-health. My astonishment at her apparent indifference does not go un-noticed (Holmes informs me I am a ` _facial telegrapher_ ’, whatever that may mean) and she lowers her eyes, unable to meet my gaze.

“I cannot discuss such things with you, Doctor.”

“Miss Hooper - _Molly_ \- he suffered a punctured lung and severe concussion. We still do not know how his violin playing shall be affected by his broken hand.”

Her eyes remain lowered, and I imagine her to small shoulders to be shivering with the cold, but I am angry.

“At this moment he is confined to bed and is even unable to sit without assist - “

“ _No more_!"

And as I look again upon her shaking shoulders I realise she is crying, and I reach across the table to grasp her hand.

“They promised me he would not be hurt. Not so much.”

In her distress, she had confused her tenses.

She obviously meant they had promised he _had not been_ hurt too much.

Clearly, that was the case.

Indeed.

She looks up, eyes red-rimmed and wide with fear, hand gripping mine so tight I cannot flex it, and it is then I understand.

“You knew this was to happen. You are being blackmailed. You left him to protect him.”

“Yes,” she says sadly, simply.

**~x~**

Molly Hooper had been the reluctant recipient of thirteen anonymous letters, instructing her that Sherlock Holmes was a man who would invite great suffering, for both his reputation as a criminologist and detective, as well as his personal well-being. The writer of the letters intimated great power and influence, and had promised to refrain from harm, so long as she deserted him, with no explanation and no further contact.

I stare, bold and uncomprehending, into her soft brown eyes, as if understanding could be found within their depths.

“But … _why?”_

“To cause him emotional pain- to _torture_ him. Doctor Watson, there is a person in this world who wishes to cause harm to Sherlock, but not merely in a brutal bludgeoning, or a cudgel to the temple. This person is so clever, you must understand, clever in the way that Sherlock is. They began so softly with the letters; was I not worried that my trouble with Mr Robert Collins and his poor, dead wife would reflect badly upon Sherlock? Was I not worried such shocking behaviour would tarnish his _golden eminence_ in society? They knew also of the troubles regarding Mr Mycroft Holmes and Sir James Prendergast in the Aldgate archaeological dig, and threatened to expose all of that. These were _troubles_ , you see, that _I_ had brought to his door. My father was named as an anarchist and a radical, when all he campaigned for was more funding for hospital treatment for the poor-”

“My goodness! How can such diverse and private information be so publically known?”

Miss Hooper wraps and re-wraps a tear-stained kerchief repeatedly round her finger, worrying at the cloth, stretching it, pulling at its straining threads.

“He is is clever, this person, this _magpie_ \- he knows so much, and things no one person should ever be privy to. He has picked apart my life, Doctor, and delved inside, probing into things that he has no cause to touch, no reason to know.”

“But Holmes _was_ hurt.”

She looks stricken, and I know I have stated a most painful and appalling fact which gained nought for being said again.

“This was my fault also. I had begun to rail against demands to stay away from Sherlock. I was considering sharing everything, since I could not bear for him to think- to think, for _one more moment_ -”

Her voice had become increasingly hushed, as if words had become such a heavy burden, they could scarcely be shifted into place. I leant forward over the table to hear her.

“For one more _second_ -”

She looks up, directly into my eyes, bold and resolute.

“That I did not love him.”

We both pause for a moment as I allow the knowledge to drift down and settle into my consciousness. I knew. Of course I did. I always had.

I take her hand.

“They knew, somehow, of my intent and they issued me a warning of what would happen if I shared anything with him. They said- _they promised_ -  he would not be hurt, just jostled, _startled_.”  She shakes her head, as if to dislodge the appalling images that  dwelled there.

“Doctor Watson, I am _so very sorry_.”

“ _He must know_!” I am all energy, reaching for my cane, almost hailing a cab from our table in my rush to share this with my friend.

_“No.”_

She is so quiet and so very restrained, but the single word acts as a giant boulder rolled across the cave entrance and all I can do is sit back down, reflecting on the unfathomable strength shown in that single utterance.

“No. If I breach this command, they will kill him. You must promise me, if you love Sherlock Holmes, please do not speak of this. I shall willingly live the rest of my life in the same city as he without passing his door, or even saying his name if his safety is assured. He shall live his life and follow the path he is intended for.”

“And you, Molly? What of yourself?”

“I shall take solace where I may; knowing he is safe, knowing he is happy.”

I have not enough remaining in my heart to counter her premise, since she has precious little comfort to take, but I am personally quite assured that happiness is a ship that has long since set sail.

**~x~**

 

 ** 6 o`clock in the morning,  ** ** Dr John H Watson's wedding day **

** Baker Street **

It is the most important day of my life and I have not slept one wink in the night preceding it.

I could not tell him the whole truth.

He is my friend; the best and wisest man I had ever known, but I could not betray the trust and desperate hopes of Miss Margaret Hooper as she so believes her selfless act is maintaining his safety. I knew how Holmes detested blackmailers above all other criminals and how he would raise his broken body and pursue this nameless, malevolent creature that wished to manipulate and harm him.

Since speaking with Molly Hooper four days ago, I have been vacillating, wild with confusion and inner incertitude. I have made promises to people I care for which place me in an impossible and intolerable situation, and today, on the day I am to make the most significant promise of all to the woman who is to be my wife, I find myself adrift from reason.

Last evening, I regained my sobriety in an instant as Holmes stood over me, questioning, inferring and finally berating my obvious interference. His eyes flashed with an avidity I could not recognise and I knew I must keep my counsel regarding Miss Hooper`s _`Magpie_ `, at least until a time of greater equanimity. My friend needed time to heal, both physically and mentally from recent aberrations, and what if she was right? What if this powerful adversary had the power to murder whomsoever he pleased? With Holmes in such a weakened state, I felt it would have been more than imprudent to trouble him with a dilemma of any description, thus, I spoke only of taking tea with Miss Hooper subsequent to an unplanned meeting (at least, partially true) and Holmes bore acceptance as ungraciously as he could, but yet quite fairly considering the circumstances.

“Watson, I shall bid you goodnight, considering you have a most important day ahead of you tomorrow.” His eyes ran across my person with a look that bordered on the disparaging, and I found myself cut to the quick by it.

“Holmes, I have apologised. It was the briefest of meetings-”

Yet he turned upon his heel and disappeared into his bedroom in a billowing flash of crimson silk and there was no degree of self-justification I could resort to, since I was both stung and aggrieved at my own duplicity.

You see, one cannot risk a lie to a man like Sherlock Holmes without taking a gamble upon the loss of his trust, and such a loss can be very hard to bear.

**~x~**

** Ten minutes past six in the morning,  ** ** Baker Street **

** Dr John H Watson's wedding day **

I hear Watson clattering cups and saucers on the sideboard, hoping no doubt that the strong, black coffee Mrs Hudson has sent forth with Billy will revive his battered head into a semblance of matrimonial anticipation.

 I distinctly doubt it.

 _Clink, chink, pour, stir_ , a pause, then a sonorous shuffle past my room towards the bathroom. I feel him hesitate, infinitesimally, outside my own door, then resume his doleful pace, clearly thinking better of it. It is true that I allowed emotional weakness in order to admonish him last night, and for this I am not proud. I am not overly burdened with friendships and John Watson is a man I hold in the very highest esteem. I know he is lying to me, but considering the huge strains he has been placed under (on the eve of his own wedding, no less) I do not lay blame for his actions upon him; he is attempting the impossible - protecting everyone whilst offending no-one. Quite the ridiculous arrangement, since offending people is often the most effective way of reaching the truth.

The facts are these:

I have an adversary who has chosen to reveal himself to me in a rather dramatic (and painful) manner in order to throw down the gauntlet. He is quite the master criminal, who has defied the law at every juncture and has maintained his anonymity via the most intricate of webs, as thin as gossamer yet as finely calibrated as the E string upon my Stradivarius ( _a perfect fifth above the A_ ). This creature may pull upon a thousand threads simultaneously, sending a tremor beyond a thousand seas, where all may feel his influence but none may know his name. He carries out the criminal undertakings others may only dream of, and is quite safe in doing so, since no thread shall lead back to him. He is the cleverest of adversaries, with the imagination to do untold damage beyond nations. He enjoys wealth, but does not hanker and clamour for it in the undignified ways that others do; such misdeeds and `projects` are undertaken merely because they interest him, alleviating the crushing boredom that is so feared by the genius mind. He has unlimited ideas and imagination, since without imagination there is no horror. Ordinary brains, with their torpid and intolerably ponderous machinations, are so slow to him. He only accepts challenges that intrigue and entice, and recently these have been thin upon the ground; recently he has become… _bored_. Mediocrity knows nothing higher than itself, but talent instantly recognises genius, and here is a genius who would like to be recognised, to capture my attention in the most delightfully cruel and debilitating ways possible. I was too near when I chanced upon the _SS Appledore_ (thanks to the innocent curiosity of Miss Molly Hooper and her gift of a rat's belly). The idiot husband of Miss Irene Adler proved to be the weakest of links, but my interference allowed him to escape to the furthest reaches of the globe to escape his fate. My adversary was not happy with this and set about devising my punishment, for which I must offer him the heartiest of congratulations, since its effectiveness has given me more pain than a dozen beatings could ever engender.

Thus, where do we now stand on this, my dear friend Watson's wedding day?

The lady, the criminal, the detective and his loyal friend. All pitched in different stances, all placed like chess pieces, unable to move without influence of each other; a stalemate rather than a checkmate, a stand-off, teetering upon the brink of some precipice-

Waiting to fall.

**~x~**

 

 

 

 


	8. Epilogue: The Truth of the Matter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When love is real and true, there are no boundaries which cannot be broken.

****

  **I am not a poet, I am a scientist.**

**I can measure the exact frequency of your voice**

**When you speak my name,**

**But I cannot explain how it resonates**

**With perfect clarity, down my spine.**

**I can explain the process by which you inherited**

**Your mother's hair**

**And your father's smile,**

**But I cannot explain where the twinkling galaxies in your eyes**

**Came from.**

**I am baffled by the apparent gravitational anomaly**

**That draws me to you**

**With a force too great for your size.**

**I know of no way to quantify the volume of your presence**

**In the room…**

**There is nothing a scientist loves more**

**Than the pursuit of discovery.**

**_(Love letter from a Scientist - by Utterlybanjaxed)_ **

 

**_"There is no remedy for love, but to love more."  -_ ** **_(Thoreaux)_ **

* * *

 

**_~x~_ **

 

The wedding party has moved into the vast conservatory of Lady Morcar`s townhouse, and I am thankful that the chattering throng is no longer within earshot. However, whilst weddings are most definitely not my area, I was proud and happy to stand beside John Watson as he pledged his troth to Miss Mary Morstan (a most intriguing young woman whose company I find quite tolerable). Vows were professed, rings exchanged, tears were shed _(Mrs Hudson)_ and champagne was imbibed, all without loss, injury or murderous intent, which one can only be grateful for.  I myself found a brief moment with my friend as we stood at the ornate gilt door, awaiting entry to the bridal parlour. He had been less than his best that morning, prompting me to bring the barber over from Wardour Street to shave him (a bloodied face does not a picturesque bridegroom make) and take it upon myself to abate his fears.

 “Watson,” I murmur, as the cellist begins her piece, announcing us, “do attempt a more unworried countenance if you may. I can personally assure you that I have the rings, I have the speech that Mary has written for me and intend to follow it to the letter. I know for a fact whereto you have misplaced the train tickets for your post-marital trip to Inverness, and I have the most implicit trust in you which I shall carry with me to my dying day.”

I hope I had allayed (almost) all of his current concerns in order to assure his enjoyment of the event, and was therefore a little concerned to see his brow crease and his jaw tense as he took firm hold of my elbow.

“My dear fellow,” he gave a slightly tremulous smile (sentiment, most likely), and clasped my other arm (kindly avoiding the ribs). “These days, they are calling it a _Honeymoon_.”

And we both threw open the doors.

**~x~**

Family portraits gaze downwards, disdainful at the living, transient visitor who invades their eternal quietude. It may be poignant to note the Countess Morcar`s daughter and granddaughter, both deceased under tragic and murderous circumstances, staring out from their canvases with eyes of unperturbed innocence and optimism. Were we to know of our fate, could we bear to go on living?

I sit amongst the gilt, the fine silks and soft candlelight of the parlour, and do nothing to divert the dark thoughts that are more than ill-fitting for a wedding feast. I imagined loss would become an easier burden by the dint of time and repetition, but this is plainly a discrepant and fallacious notion encouraged by euphemistic idiots who have experienced very little of life, bar through mere literature or hearsay. John Watson shall have a happy marriage, as I do understand his eternal and inveterate optimism shall buoy him up when waters may become stormy and dark, and his new wife has promised me she will take good care of him.

I have no reason to doubt her.

Still, I know I must once more take up the mantle of solitude in a sprawling city of five million people, whose actions are occasionally appalling, sometimes shocking, but ultimately, always… predictable. I shall make my living as before and develop my intellectual theorems and treatises as before, but I shall not _be_ as before, since frailty may no longer be an option for a man with an adversary such as mine. I must be bloody, bold and resolute if I am to enter into his dark arena, and make no helpmate of sentiment or of weaknesses; it shall be work, always the work that matters.

Notwithstanding, I am affecting an atrociously lazy comportment this evening and am pleasantly untroubled by other guests, since Watson _(the Watsons?_ ) have furnished all with exaggerated and fantastical imaginings of my injuries, and I have been allowed to lie across several armchairs, flanked by heavy crystal decanters of excellent port and golden epergnes of aspirational fruit. Although the Countess did not have the happy ending she deserved in _The Case of the Blue Carbuncle_ (Watson`s fanciful notions again), she continues to show her gratitude to both he and myself in a myriad of generous gestures.

I am a little bored of port, but fascinated by the pomegranates jostling for space between both pineapple and melon. Pulling open the spongy, pale skin, I expose the red, glistening seeds, like small rubies, or raw, bleeding viscera (depending upon the nature of one's mood) and throw a few into my mouth ( _surprisingly agreeable_ ), then a few more. Unfortunately, food taken in this manner can be nothing if unpredictable, and I find an arterial spurt of scarlet juice has blazed a trail across my collar in the process, causing me to rise reluctantly from such baronial comfort to both find a cloth and assess the damage.

An ornate filigree mirror glitters happily above the sideboard, where I find a napkin and attempt to redeem my apparel. In the mirror, the chandelier glows and flickers, casting a warmth across the gilt framed ancestors, the exotic wedding breakfast and the paleness of my face, staring back, beyond and over my shoulder into the darker recesses of the room.  A tinkling melody from beyond the parlour doors heralds the beginning of the dancing in the overpopulated ballroom, and as I slowly lower the napkin, I feel a disconnection, a detachment, as her words float to me across that reflection.

“I would imagine, Mr Sherlock Holmes, that you would fail to approve of a waltz under any circumstances, let alone a wedding.”

“My dear Molly Hooper,” I reply to her reflection (as if facing anything more than an ethereal facsimile of her reality would render this enchantment null and void), “as you must surely know, it is a capital mistake to theorise before one has sufficient data.”

“Indeed?”

She draws in closer, the shadows of her face sculpted deeply by the muted light, and the copper glint in her hair drawing the eye, like spun caramel… like warmth… like comfort-

“In actual fact, I am a rather accomplished dancer.”

 Her warm hand reaches up and touches my shoulder, but I am still unable to turn, for fear to break this spell.

“Of course you are,” she whispers, gently turning me. “For what else could you be?”

Like warmth. Like comfort.

Like love.

**~x~**

 

** Countess Morcar`s Townhouse,  ** ** The Ballroom **

** A little after eight pm **

I glance across a candlelit room of undulating folk, people I know and people I care about, and I am happy for their enjoyment, for their celebration of my life-changing day, but I have eyes for only one of them.

“Mary… Mary Watson?”

A smile; coquettish, warm, ardent, _mine_.

“You are correct in your address, and more than handsome in your _dress,_ Dr John Watson.”

“Soldier, doctor…”

“ _Husband._ ”

I take her arm, but my beautiful wife is tempered in her manner, since she has a little more than greetings to bestow. She allows my lead, then steers me purposefully into the inglenook, where a degree of privacy is provided by a wall of solid marble. I look into her eyes and find her incandescent with intrigue.

“I adore you.”

“John, you are my moon and my stars, but you must listen, since I have the most enchanting and delightful piece of information to content you on this day.”

“Mary, I truthfully could not be happier.”

“Molly Hooper and Sherlock Holmes sit together in the parlour, just as we stand here.”

I find I am dumbly ( and rather impertinently) staring at my new wife, but she is not obviated from her discourse.

“They sit, they speak, they eat pomegranates, and all is well with the world.”

I look into her navy eyes and I smile.

 

 **~x~**  

My heart is light; untethered and disengaged, floating and free.

Sherlock Holmes and I share a large armchair, and we both incline our feet atop an oddly upholstered footstool.

“Lion.” I purport, splaying fingertips across it surface.

“Family pet,” he returns, glancing beneath its moorings. “Golden retriever. Seven or eight years old at the time of death.”

I almost remove my tired feet, but realise the hypocrisy of the gesture and settle into him. I am happy to an unbearable degree and will allow nothing to temper it.

“I shall not ask how you know that.”

“I am gratified to hear it.”

I lean my head into his shoulder and breath him in; cardamom, tobacco, rosin, camphor (still so bruised and damaged), and an indistinguishable scent that is his own, and therefore cannot be defined or catalogued.

“Sherlock, I am so very sorry-”

“I am unable to allow the continuance of your statement.”

I twist my head around and find the strength of his jaw; the solution of his hand in mine.

“Whilst your sacrifice was admirable, it was unnecessary.”

Flames flicker in the grate; a clock ticks, yet time stands, motionless.

“I could not allow the curtailment of… _you._ I would always have come to find you, when the time was right; when I had my full strength and knowledge.  Our friend has shown his hand, thus exposing his ego and losing his power over you. What, now, is the worst that can happen? I see him everywhere, and I shall have my hour with him.”

Sherlock pauses, and turns from the fire to look at me, and I see the flames reflecting across his eyes, making them molten metal, a crucible for genius.

“Molly Hooper, the worst has already happened- _I lost you_. This was quite intolerable, and remarkably inconvenient, since my deductive processes were- _affected_ \- during your hiatus.”

I smile.

“One must comfort oneself as best one can, under duress. Falsehoods may provide transitory solace, but I have recently reached the conclusion that I am not made lesser by love, I am made greater.”

I wish to hold him, envelop him, sheath him with myself, like a pool of varnish that seals out the remainder of the world, but I merely flex my fingers that intertwine with his and thrive in the warmth of him. Then I say:

“ _How_ recently?”

His thumb brushes over my _thenar_ , and my _hypothenar_ , thence to my _proximal_ and my _distal palmar_ before he makes reply.

“The very moment I saw your face in the mirror, realising I knew it better than I knew my own.”

We both now know there is nothing more to say, and that is the precise moment at which he kisses me.

**~x~**

 

 

 

 

 


	9. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John Watson narrates the progression of Sherlock Holmes. Where would he be without the four signs of love?

** Epilogue, by Dr John H Watson **

**“Affection is responsible for nine-tenths of whatever solid and durable happiness there is in our natural lives.”** **(C.S. Lewis - The Four Loves)**

* * *

 

 

** Several months later, sev** **eral minutes past four in the morning **

** The East End of London - a** **n alleyway **

Running, blindly; driving rain across my face (hat lost some time ago), feet pounding without care or falter through mud, water, London filth.

Dimly I see Holmes` coat billowing ahead of me, whilst behind I faintly hear Lestrade`s whistle, summonsing aid from wherever it may come. As I take another tight, dark corner, I am yanked like a rag-doll, momentum bringing me to my knees and next to the crouching form of my friend. His face is as filthy as I imagine mine to be, and he holds a long, gloved finger to his lips and gestures ahead to a low-timbered building from whence dim lamplight and faint music can be heard.

“Anonymity in a crowd,” he whispers, breathing hard, hot bursts, evidence of his exertions. “We wait here, since I know of no exit to this place and he shall have expected us to have long given up by now. Or an hour from now.”

I glance grimly into the steel grey of the sky and the slanting needles of rainwater driving down like stair-rods. Holmes then pulls me by the sleeve into a tiny lean-to shed which has no door, but offers some shelter and a clear view of the tavern.

“Lestrade?”

“Taken a wrong turn several alleyways back. Luckily, his thundering footfalls shall not announce us to all and sundry, and by _all and sundry_ , I mean Mr Moran (gesturing towards the building opposite) who shall be meeting with us forthwith.”

In the dimness of the early dawn, I see the outline of his pale face and the faint glimmer of his smile and I realise, with a jolt, how happy he is. We are soaked to the skin, sitting in the dirt, awaiting the emergence of a potential murderer from a squalid flop house, and Sherlock Holmes is _intoxicated_ with glee.

“Should I suppose, Holmes, that we are to be here overlong?”

He smirks, his honesty dark around its edges.

“ _Most_ unlikely Watson. What say you we while away our time in some useful manner? I could elucidate my recent deductions concerning the changing fit of your waistcoat, or the altered habits of Mrs Mary Watson?”

Though I am startled by this, I give him no sign, since I decide I should like to share a few observations of my own at this proffered juncture, as opportunities such as this these days are rather thin upon the ground.

“No, my dear fellow,” I return, a hint of mischief colouring my tone.

“I should like to talk of love.”

**~x~**

There are four kinds of love, and Sherlock Holmes is a man lucky enough to have experience of them all.

A man famed for his cerebral machinations and clear-headed scientific approach to the world may have (in times past) deemed himself to be above the emotional tumult that loving another person can bring. It had made perfect sense to Mr Holmes to place himself above the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to and to retreat from the complexities of human emotion that map out the lives of most of us. Finding distraction an impossible burden to bear when a distillation is to be analysed, or a series of events are to be placed beneath his pansophical gaze, he had chosen to withdraw, to remove all distraction until the thinker becomes the mind alone, with the body and heart a mere appendix to the whole; redundant and, occasionally, an irritant.

What Mr Holmes has oftentimes failed to recall, however, is the elemental idea that he is (as are we all) human, and therefore subject to those frailties, despite an iron will and (unbelievably) stubborn countenance.

Dear reader, it must now be noted nearing the end of this tale, that the largest failing of Mr Sherlock Holmes was his inability to heed one of the most obvious and influential facts ever to be paraded before him. In his ardent desire to be an automaton, he completely failed to note the signs, and realise how very much he himself, is loved.

Storge

Mycroft Holmes would do all in his power to protect his younger brother. Filial squabbling and competitive idiocy do not hide the protective love Mycroft retains for my friend. He would have shielded him from any harm, imagined or otherwise (even from the attentions of Miss Molly Hooper, before the truth dawned, bold and clear). Holmes` parents, although limited in their understanding of their two, brilliant and undefinable boys, also exhibit a love that is real and worthy.

Philia

In his attitude to friendship, Holmes always alludes to myself as being his one and only comrade (“I do not have _friends_ , Watson, I have but one.”) but upon my entry into his fascinating and unpredictable world, I noted the presence of another had had served that role upon many an occasion, without demur or complaint regarding the frequent thoughtless and, frankly, shoddy treatment he received.  Gregory Lestrade had believed in Sherlock Holmes when so many at Great Scotland Yard had reviled his unorthodox genius and mocked the methods they could do little to grasp or interpret. Even now, despite widespread recognition and accolade, there are many at the Yard who will not tolerate the influence of my friend upon traditional policing, and deign to refute and repudiate his help. From the very beginning, Lestrade has kept his faith and even risked his own career and aggrandizement to support a man he both admires and cares for. I knew how the Detective Inspector cared greatly for Molly Hooper, yet stood back the very moment he realised the love that existed between her and Sherlock Holmes. His love comes from the admiration of a brilliant mind and is given through friendship, loyalty and support.

Eros

It must be noted that, despite the fact that Holmes had been oblivious to the dangerous, fiery, and irrational lure of sexual desire, usually failing to notice raw attraction in any guise (exempting the effects it had upon the proclivities of his clients) this did not dissuade others from being desirous of _him._ Ms Irene Adler had caught many in her solicitations during her time upon the stage (myself included) and cut an alluring and seductive swathe through a society covetous of her charms. The day she visited Mr Sherlock Holmes, her intent had been to entice and seduce him; to discern a weakness and make free with it. She had not accounted for genuine attraction and fulsome desire.  A woman of sophisticated and complex requirements, she discarded admirers as easily as shrugging off a winter coat, but upon meeting an intellectual equal, she found herself unable to resist. My wife also informs me that Holmes is a man whose physical attributes do not always go unnoticed by those amorous of such things _(some notion regarding his eyes?)_ and therefore, Ms Adler found herself impoverished when her desire was not returned.  Holmes himself has had little to comment upon this matter, excepting her smoking (“I _would have found a thousand husbands for one cigarette from that case”_ ) and her love of chess ( _“despicable_ ”). Such desire comes from the body, but what good is a body that is naked when the personality is cloaked in disguise and dishonesty? Love that is real will not be given without truth, and Ms Adler (beautiful, intelligent, skilfull in her execution) could not capture the attentions of Mr Sherlock Holmes, for he had witnessed another path.

Agape

When love is given freely, without condition, it is deemed a gift.

A person may care for another, but, on occasion, there comes a person who shall love another without question, without thought and without restriction. Sherlock Holmes is my dearest friend, for whom I would lay down my own life and consider it a privilege, and I have good faith he would do the same for me.  But, knowing him as I do, I suspected he would have lived out his life sagaciously, taking nourishment from objection, defiance and interrogation, and any intellectual puzzle that crossed his path.

Whether by fortune or divine management, this aspiration has not been realised, and a selfless, unconditional attachment has stolen its way across his formidable path. No man is an island, and the progression of Sherlock Holmes has seen him very gradually led into a bold and unfamiliar stance which he would never have chosen for himself, but may now never concede.

Miss Margaret Ann Hooper gives him true reason for redamancy, friendship and desire. He is unable to _`read’_ her as he can so easily read others.  Holmes can know a person's disposition within a moment of making their acquaintance, precluding him from learning about them from a more measured and palatable point of view. With Molly, it is as if a mist descends which partially blocks and obscures his inferential and deductive skills and allows him the luxury of both _knowing_ and _not_ _knowing_ when she looks him directly in the eye and says:

“Because, Sherlock. Simply _because_.”

**~x~**

The small crease between his eyes is just discernible amongst the dirt and early morning haze and I realise Sherlock Holmes is awaiting further colloquy from myself.

“So, “ his voice carries a slight uncertainty in its timbre which is as rare as it is enjoyable. “What of it, Watson? What do you wish to say regarding love? I must warn you that I am far from qualified to offer anything useful in the way of discourse.”

A rumble of laughter from the tavern momentarily tears his attentions away, but they return directly. He is satisfied that nothing has yet occurred, and since I have still not spoken his curiosity is clearly a little piqued.

I take pity on his wary puzzlement and break into a slow smile (more difficult than might be apparent, considering our less than amenable location) and clap a hand on his sodden wool shoulder.

“`Tis nothing- a foolish musing is all.”

“Concluding in?” His attention is again waning, eyes darting back to the building opposite with increasing regularity, and I note a definitive tensing of his stance, as if preparing for an approaching physical altercation.

“My conclusion, Mr Sherlock Holmes, is that you show all the signs and symptoms of being an extremely lucky man, and I fervently hope you realise it.”

Shouting and cat-calling from the inn, followed by a door cracking a shaft of lamp light into the gloom brings us both to our feet and into a state of readiness, giving him just a moment to concur.

“Oh, I _do_ , Watson,” he flashes a genuine smile through the darkness in return. “I truly do.”

And we run.

 

**~x~**

** Earlier that day, s ** ** omewhere in London **

A slight, dark-haired gentleman sits behind a large, applewood desk, purporting a less than gentlemanly arrangement of highly polished brogues atop its polished surface. Another man, balding and older, sits across from him, making neither sound nor gesture as if he is merely awaiting his cue. The dark man wears an excellently tailored silk suit in the palest of greys, and his eyes are large and doleful, as if a permanent disappointment sits within him. He slowly dictates a telegram to a pale-haired woman whose delicate features are tragically ravaged by a bold, livid scar that puckers the skin about her eye and cheek.

_“- **stop** Promises mean everything but after they are broken sorry means nothing **stop** ”_

“See to it straight away if you will, my dear. If the telegraph office is closed, there is simply no telling of how cross I will be.”

His sing-song voice belies the dead look behind those jet black eyes, the colour of frozen leaves in winter.

“Straight away, sir.” She cowers slightly and backs out of the room until she is gone.

“Adorable,” the dark man smiles warmly to his visitor across the desk, removing his feet and reaching towards a letter knife, engraved with a small bird at the base of its elegant handle. “You should get one of your own, Moran; always so grateful.”

Reaching for an apple, the smaller man begins to peel it, paring away tiny slivers of red skin in an ever increasing spiral that slowly inches its way towards the desk's surface.

“Such a disappointment that Ms Adler proved less useful than I had imagined,” he continues, as the balding man nods silently in concurrence.

“But, that was then, and this is now, and so much has happened over the last few months, I am barely able to contain my exuberance.” The peel is lower, nearing the desk top with no hint of a break, despite such a parlous fragility. The man nods again.

“Now that those irritating elections are done with we can really begin to make our mark upon this wondrous city, wouldn’t you agree?”

Another nod, and then a moment of silence where only the scrape of knife upon pared flesh can be heard.

“Oh, hush now, Moran, I am quite tired of your ceaseless prattle,” continues the dark man, grinning and inclining his head towards the door, as the peel touches the desk.

“Go on now, you must allow entry to my first appointment, then you need to repair down to the East End, where I believe you may find yourself cheek by jowl with my very favourite consulting detective and his loyal band of helpers. Do endeavour to be your usual, charming self.”

Moran nods again, grasping his bowler hat in large, meaty hands with malformed knuckles, and starting, flat-footed, towards the door.

“The Right Honorable Lord Mayor of London shall see you now,” he dolefully announces, in gravelly, underused tones as he holds wide the huge, ornate doors of the Mansion House`s main office.

An excited gaggle of well-dressed gentlemen surges forth in a flurry of geniality and murmurings of greeting, top hats well-polished and white-gloved hands gripping silver topped canes of varied design.

“At last,” the leader of the group inclines his head as the dark man leaps to his feet, hand outstretched.

“Mr Moriarty,” continues the leader, “we are overjoyed to finally meet you.”

And the knife and apple lie abandoned upon the desk, a coil of scarlet peel running through the arrangement as if in silent punctuation.

 

**THE END**

 

 

 

 


End file.
